satsujin

[ an old porn rant posted for your viewing pleasure. enjoy!]

I need a game plan. I'm fast approaching my mid-twenties and I have no idea what I want from life. I wish there was something in life that I loved enough to devote myself to fully. I'm so fickle. I can't commit. The only thing I can commit to is making other people happy, or doing things for the sake of diplomacy. I suck it up. Swallow it hard. I can't make the decisions for myself if I fear that they are life changing because I'm too scared to fail. Ironically, with this fear of failure perpetually taunting me, I know that it's the very thing that's going to send me over that cliff. The one thing I can't seem to get over, is exactly what's going to drive me to that fear. My fear of it is what's going to make me endure it.

I hate that we define ourselves by how much money we make. I hate that we define ourselves by the things we've accomplished. I run into old 'friends', people I've worked with, sang with, spoke with, shared a meal with and they always want to know how I'm doing. I know it's not because they give a shit. I know it's because they want to be polite, share a smile. Very rarely do I run into somebody that genuinely wants to share a conversation beyond how fantastic they are doing, and how much money they are making, doing the thing that they absolutely love because it's been their calling since they fell out of their mother's black hole of a womb. And because I have virtually no social life, they always run into me exploring their perversions (or coyly pretending to laugh at them. Har-Har.) at my job.

Before I continue, I will openly admit that I am bitter because I realize I am a complete loser at twenty-three. I am a porn clerk. Hear me roar. (mewl.)

Moving on.

Case in point: I walk in the door, halfway through the shift. I left my cellphone at the house. My car is shitty (adding to my loser image. I drive a Kia. 'nuff said.) so leaving the house without it is a death wish wrapped with a pretty Christmas bow. I'm asking for trouble when I do things like that. Anyway, I come back, with the cellphone, and low and behold I make eye contact with her.

This is not the kind of eye contact that cues the crescendo of classical strings, and prompts us to jump fields through leaps and bounds. I'm accutely aware of the cat claws scratching at the chalkboard. I know her face. By god, I KNOW her face, and I'm pretty sure I know her name. But for the sake of being an asshole, I do my best to feign that I don't. Truth be told, I've known this girl since we were kids.

"ALEX (insert terrible German last name here)! OH.MY.GOD."

I'm like a deer caught in the headlights, with the MAC truck barreling in at eighty-miles an hour with no where to run, as by the time I see the truck, it's long passed me. I'm roadkill.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

I want to crawl under a rock. This girl is very pretty. The kind of cute pretty that makes other girls want to stop eating, and take loans just to pay for teeth whitening. I'm almost relunctant to tell her that I work here, but it's pretty obvious. Hard to miss the REALLY LARGE LOGO SCRAWLED ACROSS THE BACK OF THE SHIRT. Long story short, we chit chat. It's semi-pleasant (as I think she's a complete moron. Amazing how complete morons have these wonderful success stories.) She does hair. I sell porn. But she does hair in Seattle. Oh man. Not only am I put at odds by sheer occupation, but the location of the occupation is enough to send me reeling. SEATTLE.

For those of us who are unfamiliar with Washington. Tacoma (WootWoot!) is like Seattle's little thug brother. We're a little rougher around the edges. We don't always wear pants that fit, but at least we comb and wash our hair. (Yes, this is for you hipsters who think that plastering your hair to one side of your face looks attractive.) Tacoma is in the shadow of the bustling city. Admittedly, I betray my hometown for the club scene, but ... for us natives, it's understandable. Nevertheless, Seattle picks their teeth with toothpicks. We flat use the leftover bone.

"I do hair in Seattle."
"... That's nice." (I wish I had this kind of competitive fierce loyalty when I was in high school. I probably would have been a great cheerleader. <cough>
"You look really different."
"Really?"
"You look a lot prettier."

I want to attribute this conversation to the possibility that there is a social barrier constructed by her military Korean-American upbringing. Culturally, there is a reason why she drops the tiny barbs. She doesn't get that by saying "You look pretti-ER" really means: "You were once ugly." I don't remember her being particularly smart. (Note that I am not associating her lack of intelligence to the fact that she was raised Korean-American, but rather stating the fact that she is naturally vacant and just so happens to -be- Korean-American.) Maybe nothing's changed and she phrases her compliments in a fashion that showcases that theory.

Or maybe she knows exactly what she's saying, and her smile just isn't enough to hide how smug she is about it.

Or, maybe I will default to my original theory: I'm a loser. (Hahahahaha.)

The Saga Continues: .....