Fred (guinea pig)
Fred (guinea pig)
I was best friends with this girl in kindergarten. In the first grade, she started bullying me. She’d corner me in areas of the classroom where the teacher couldn’t see and guilt-pressure me into giving her my snack everyday. I was very shy and she was becoming an aggressive queen-bee. I told her to leave me alone or I was telling. We avoided each other from then on.
We ended up going to the same high school and even the same college where I watched her become a terrible, prissy bitch. Once, in a college auditorium History class, she made her entrance, fashionably late, and I swear– she was wearing a feather fucking boa.
Then, during a spring break towards the end of college, she was with her boyfriend and his father and they all died in a plane crash–one of those tiny personal planes–crashed right into a building.
I saw the “Breaking News” report.
She was the first person I knew to die.
Today I got kicked out of my (very small) city’s Facebook group after a bunch of angry women reprimanded me like a child.
I mistakenly had tried to start a conversation as a comment to a woman’s recommendation for a place to get your infant’s ears pierced cheaply and easily. I merely said “Or you can wait until the kid’s old enough…blah blah blah” never saying anything personal or “you’re a stupid asshole for doing this,” but these women still went APESHIT in a “don’t tell me how to raise my child” kind of way. I got my ears pierced when I was 8 years old because my mother thinks it’s cruel to pierce an infant’s ears and I agree.
Trying to explain myself only made things worse. I went temporarily blind when some bitch in the group started a post to me with, “Look, you’re new here, so…” as I had just recently joined the group, though have lived in the city forever. These were 40 something bullies who couldn’t understand the notion of an alternative viewpoint. Bitches must’ve never taken debate.
So, they kicked me out of the group. Good thing they didn’t know I have no children!
Kinda felt like the time my high school French teacher told me I “wasn’t really (school’s name) material.”
I guess I have a habit of pissing people off. Many years ago, my aunt sent me a chain letter bashing Muslims. Well, her sister married a man from Iran, from which they produced 3 children, her nieces and nephew, my siblings. Yet, when I pointed this out to her and asked why she would send that to me when my family, her family, is of Muslim descent, I ended up being the one in the wrong and am the reason she doesn’t talk to my family any longer.
I had several of these old shitty friends or boyfriends who, upon me asking for my belongings back at the end of a relationship, would inevitably either destroy them or make a huge deal about how petty I was wanting my things back. How dare I? Well, here’s every other thing back that you ever gave me because we live in a soap opera full of crafted trash.
When I got married, there was this one time my in-laws were staying with us for way too long and on the very last day of their visit, I lost my patience when his dad starting saying something racist. I said something and he responded to me with “You are wrong!” in a bellowing voice, like my father, in my own home. I went inside and did not see them off. The next day, I wrote his mom a letter to explain my feelings about the situation and what had happened. Now his parents hate me. And then they had to find out we were already married! Eloped in Vegas, just like she told us not to. Oh, and we’re not having children. So much hatred now.
Finally, when my Gramma died in 2016 and my 3 cousins could actually live with themselves to say nothing to their grandfather about his wife dying, I wrote them a letter. It was mainly addressed to my one cousin who is 5 months older than me, but as the eldest, she has a certain responsibility. I told them how shitty it was of them and how they’re shitty family anyway. They ran and told their mommy on me (aunt from prior story).
Other aunt, “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m an adult. They’re adults. I can do whatever I want. Eat my butt.
Now, I tell everyone when they piss me off. “Fuck you, and here’s why…”
I do it matter of factly. Here is why you suck. This is what you did. This is how I feel. Like a robot.
And here is why I have no friends.
But when I had friends, I was a pushover, piece of shit, doormat who everyone used.
Quite the conundrum.
Poets die young–younger than novelists, playwrights, and other writers, a U.S. researcher said on Wednesday. “It could be because poets are tortured and prone to self-destruction, or it could be that poets become famous young, so their early deaths are noticed,” said James Kaufman of the learning research institute at California State University at San Bernadino.
For the report, published in the journal of death studies, Kaufman studied 1,987 dead writers from various centuries from the United States, China, Turkey, and eastern Europe. He classified the writers as fiction writers, poets, playwrights, and nonfiction writers. He did not study the causes of death.
“Among american, Chinese and Turkish writers, poets died significantly younger than nonfiction writers,” Kaufman wrote in the report. “Among the entire sample, poets died younger than both fiction writers and nonfiction writers.”
Because Kaufman studied some writers who lived hundreds of years ago, it is impossible to compare their average age of death to that of the general population.
“On average, poets lived 62 years, playwrights 63 years, novelists 66 years and nonfiction writers lived 68 years,” Kaufman said in an interview conducted by email.
Kaufman has also studied poets and mental illness. “What I found was pretty consistent with the death finding. Actually female poets were more likely to suffer from mental illness (e.g. be hospitalized, commit suicide, attempt suicide) than any other kind of writer and more likely than other eminent women,” he said.
“I’ve dubbed this the ‘Sylvia Plath effect.’”
Sylvia Plath was a poet and novelist who killed herself in 1963 at the age of 30. “There could also be a more benign explanation for poets’ early demise,” Kaufman said. “Poets produce twice as much of their lifetime output in their twenties as novelists do,” he said.
So when a budding novelist dies young, few people may notice. “A great novelist or nonfiction writer who dies at 28 may not have yet produced her or his magnum opus.”
Kaufman said poets should not worry, but should perhaps look after their health. “The fact that a Sylvia Plath…may die young does not necessarily mean an introduction to poetry class should carry a warning that poems may be hazardous to one’s health,” he said.