Barbie Dolls

Feeling like you don’t belong… Feeling like you weren’t meant to be a part of all of this.  What are your troubles?  Do tell–

No, don’t.  I don’t care. Go bitch to someone else about how your parents took away your iPod.  Go tell somebody else that your boyfriend’s cheating in you.  Tell them it’s not your fault you’re just so damn whiny.  So you accidentally made out with the football team at that party last weekend.  So what?  You were drunk; we all make mistakes.  Right?

Wrong.

You can stop yourself.  At least you could if you actually tried.

Oh, you people.  And what do I mean “you people”?  I mean you.  You have to be perfect.  Don’t allow random events and things to sculpt your future and lifestyle.  Instead, let’s live by a tight schedule of “making mistakes” and whining to your friends because you’re a lazy deadbeat who’s out of suntan lotion.  In no way could it be my fault at all, and yet you come straight to me because you think I could solve your problems?  Is that it?  Is it something about me?  You just assume I will listen to you, right, because I’m so stolid and quiet?  Never could I just speak up and tell you up front that you reek of Budweiser and charred lungs.  Is that it?

I will tell you now, then.  You reek of Budweiser and charred lungs.  Stop acting like you’re some college party kid, stop pretending to be some untouchable hot shit.  You are not special.  You’re no different from anyone else.  You’re not just going to float by and have your diploma handed to you on a silver platter while we carry you up on our aching shoulders.   If you want my sympathy, never will you get it acting like that.  How about when you stop thinking that people actually give a shit about your hangover?  I don’t understand why you even have a hangover.  And when you have one, let’s announce it to the world, to everyone because we all care about your throbbing head and loss of memory.  And, gee, you’re getting a bit pale, huh?  Time to hit the tanning beds.  All that money you spend on getting a few shades more orange.  I’ll see you at our 10-year reunion when you look like a well-used leather couch.

Maybe it’s not the right way to put it.  Maybe I just don’t “understand”.  I have no idea what I’m talking about because I’ve never been there.  But we’ll see what happens, then, huh?  I’ll see you on the other side.  I wonder who will be on top, then?