What was I going to write about again? [fuck me sideways]

It's Time

Grand Bend was amazing. Even more so were the people I met. Eddie's friends were lovely and true to the bright light in which he painted them in his countless engaging narratives wherein they played a central role. Though highly intimidated at first, I soon crushed my lack of ease and I can only hope that they liked me as much as I did them. When those much needed seventy two hours of drinking, smoking, sunsoaking, bonding, laughing, and rather ineffective drug-taking were over, I was deeply saddened to return to this place that I, with great disdain, call home.

Here I am, back again, drowning in this conservative imperative that shapes the minds of Chelmsfordians, particularly and most regrettably my parents (highly educated and intelligent they are, progressive they are not). But more than I am frustrated, I am disappointed in my failure to make so much as a minimal effort to make like the empire and strike back (heh heh). I've been standing by, year after year, letting my whereabouts define me, remaining a product of environmental standpoint. And when I wasn't, I was half-heartedly closet-rebelling or keeping my reproachful thoughts to myself or my close friends. Sitting at the sidelines shaking your head at the world doesn't accomplish a single thing.

I tried with my parents. I really did. I cannot change them. But I also will not change for them.

I thank my good friend the internet, for without her, I would be a lost cause.
I thank my spectacular boyfriend, whose cultural knowledge is streets ahead of mine.
I thank my wonderfully pretentious (brilliant, nonetheless) best friend Justin, whose constant name-dropping has forced numerous hours of research out of me.
I thank Stephen Hawking, Camus, and Coquette, for the eye-opening bitch slaps.
I thank the numerous authors of the books I read, those close to me who challenge my opinions, and my psychiatrist, who restored my faith in his proffession.
I thank the liberals, the copyleft, the human rights activists, the feminists, the satirists, the visioniaries, and everyone else along the way who has unknowinly altered my path for the better.

I feel like everything makes sense, before it meets my senses. It gets violently hurled around my tornado of a brain and terribly rearranged. Finally, I spew out crudely constructed sentences made up of poorly chosen words that probably have nothing to do with anything of value. Yet when I have finished writing, I feel better and happily empty.

Sorta like taking out the trash.