Friday, February 24, 2006

Group Therapy

Last night Brad got a junk e-mail advertising a website where one might see a brunette perform a certain act involving a particular bodily fluid. This isn't weird in and of itself (because Brad is always signing himself up for x-rated peemail lists).

The weird part is that the sender was a Mr. Bjorn Again.

This morning, I found an e-mail advertising "lowwwe mortgagee rates for HOUSE" in my junk folder. The sender? Christian Rock.

The evangelical right has got to be stopped. When they're Jesusing my junk mail, it's time for action.

I'm back in godless New York after a long weekend and a couple of vacation days in Ohio. Brad and I left on Friday with an obscene amount of laundry and our hamstress Tempestt Bledsoe in tow, arrived on Saturday after the best motel stay I've ever had, and returned on Wednesday for a taxing two day work week. In the middle I bought an insane necklace at the Unique Thrift Store with a jointed lion pendant, enjoyed the movie Palindromes without particularly understanding it, ate my weight in Wendy's Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers, attended ten minutes of a party in a Masonic temple, stood by Lake Erie and was cold, caught up with the drag queens and took note that one definitely got a new butt, and visited a successful accountant in Akron whom I bet no one suspects used to allow his friends to put makeup on him and photograph him in suggestive and compromising poses.

I visited my college twice, and each trip was no more than a couple of hours long. The town still looks nearly the same. You can still buy the same incense in the same shop below the video store--whose e-mail list I still cannot get off of--but the kids walking around are so different than the ones I remember going to school with. It's possible that I've just grown crotchety, and I acknowledge this a la Step One in an AA meeting. But I don't think I'm wrong. The friends I still have there are evidence of a weirder, more interesting time (albeit a time that was also, on the whole, smellier and hairier). And so many of them seem ready to light fire to an academic building just to be able to pee on the ashes.

So, I don't know how many of them read this, but I hope they all know I'm pulling for them. Oberlin is not the end of the line for any of them, and things are definitely going to start looking up come the end of the year (or graduation). It was so easy to forget that an entire world existed beyond the poles of North and J-House, but I swear it's true--and all the humorless bullshit that happened to me between the two amounts to nothing but the psychological bruise I let it become.

My life is far from perfect, but I was happy to come home on Wednesday to my outrageously expensive apartment in my lame neighborhood. I still feel hopeful that there's a cityful of opportunity waiting for me at the brighter end of the subway tunnel, and people in it that I'm supposed to meet (or at least eavesdrop on and blog about). If even my stupid, dateless, crappy-job-having, makeover-needing life is an improvement over college, my friends' post-Oberlin lives are poised to rocket into stratospheric happiness of hippie proportions.

Pinkie swear.

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