Flash Dance Ass Pants


My mis-wired brain goes back in time too frequently for my preferred in-the-moment experience. I suddenly found myself transported to 1992 today. I had just started self-medicating with “gateway drugs” with some of *those* friends you’re warned about. I was depressed and miserable, and I’d do anything for crumbs of friendship and a buzz to make me forget I wanted to die.
One such mis-wired friend was Sharon. I’m not even faking her name; she’s not worth the waste of a pseudonym. She treated me like shit, but I worshipped her. My mom bought me a skirt I actually liked, which is weird for a teenager, and Sharon said to me, “You don’t deserve that, let me have it.” I protested weakly, but it was pathetic. My caveat: “Don’t tear it like you do all your other skirts.” I saw her three days later and she had destroyed it. I was too embarrassed to go home in it to my mom so didn’t even bother to take it back, just whimpered, “I asked you not to tear it.”
I don’t remember why I was telling you about Sharon exactly, except that maybe the point was that I have no desire to go to 1992 and see Sharon and my ruined skirt. Why re-visit a hideous human being in a seriously deranged part of my life? I have no wish to, it’s just that the record skips and goes back to a previous track.
I wore that skirt for eight hours, yet I’ve seen it countless times. I haven’t found a purpose for this yet other than torment. I guess I’m supposed to learn from it—don’t have shitty friends—but what I feel is anger and frustration. I’m minding my own business, la-ti-da, and then bam! 1992 and a blue and pink flowered skirt I adored destroyed by the girl I idiotically called my best friend. I’m supposed to learn that friends should actually follow the heart-felt passion of the spirit of friendship, not the biting anger of enemies.
I would truly like to conclude this moralistic essay on the Sharons of my life by exhorting with passion, “And I have out-grown cold callousness to feel the enveloping love of growth,” but I can’t, honestly. Instead I can just say, “Goddamn I wish I wouldn’t go to 1992.”
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Faceblocked


Facebook is my best friend and my worst enemy.
I have little outside life because of my disabilities, so I live on Facespace for social interaction and support groups dedicated to my issues. I have made some amazing connections on Faceblank, and even gone to visit a friend in person—it can be an amazing tool, but the flip-side is that it’s a tool.
How many times have you made such great friends only to discover serious issues? I meet someone in a group, we agree to PM, and we have a great time! Then they start talking about their family’s love of guns and that they’re getting 2nd Amendment signs for their yard to prove how pro-firearm they are. Oh. Wow. Total friendship killer when Faceidiocy reveals the vast, huge, glaring gaps in your fundamental values!
But what about the real connections Facebook brings? What about the long chats, the daily check-ins, the plans to visit? And then bam. They’re gone. You’re blocked. They completely cut off contact with no explanation why. You were told you were such a special friend, you felt so flattered, but no, in the end, you were their gun-toting friend—I guess.
I just got flushed from Facejunk by a “very close friend.” A bestie. A “we get each other so we can tell each other anything.”
As crushed as I am, believe it or not, I am trying to be mature. I am trying to suck it up and say “It’s only the internet after all.” But most of what I have in life is only the internet, so how not to feel blanked out?
Life will go on… with valium and lemonade.