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I have stretch marks under one arm pit and not the other. That's… - demi0urgos [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
demi0urgos

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[Aug. 10th, 2006|01:52 pm]
demi0urgos
I have stretch marks under one arm pit and not the other.

That's the shit I'm normally ready to talk about, no matter how insignificant the topic may be. Yet I am still fighting hard to place a very important event in my life that happened a whole three weekends ago. An event that affected one of you, or at least I made a heart felt plea to one of you, as a direct result of this event.

So hard to capture this event in words. I can say what happened but I can't put how it effected me in words.

See, it was my brother's 21st birthday. The whole weekend was spent celebrating just another day in the life of a boy. For me, however, it was a study in the superficiality of people.

The last time I had hung out with any of his friends, or our family, I was a long haired hippie. I was always an outsider and, frankly, I didn't mind. Having long hair gave me the super human ability of knowing which people were superficial butt monkeys. We know when someone is comfortable with who we are based on their initial reaction to our physical representation of ourselves.

I know, it's almost as superficial of me to judge someone based on their superficial reaction to me, but it's worked for me so far. I do not joke when I say that I judge people based on how they judge.

So there I was. I looked like any other preppy my bro would hang out with, and for a weekend, I had the esteemed privilege of being a made man.

And this is about where I stop every time I begin writing about it. Where I have to begin passing my own judgment on judgmental people. This is such a personal thing to me I can't bring myself to do it.

THE POINT, I began longing to be a freak again. I began to see beauty in everything these people might consider unworthy. I had already seen this beauty before, but it was no longer just a mild appreciation or a supporting celebration; it had become a down right obsession.

When a thing of beauty suddenly becomes an effigy to be idolized with righteous zeal, is that a grand gesture, or is it concentrated superficiality?

Today, for lunch, I went to a strip club with some friends from $previous_employer. We sat there staring at women whom many would consider out of our league. They would come up on stage, appeal to our most base desires, all for what a disappointed Italian cab driver or waitress (or a desparte bum) would call "Stracci" or rags: bills of insignificant value. We sat there with full plates of food, $8 a plate, meals that weren't worth a dime (I couldn't bring my self to pay for that slop) yet we spent, among all four of us, 5 dollars on the women probing themselves publicly for our pleasure. How we judged them and listed their flaws. I tried with a sad desperation to list their qualities without giving away the sympathy I felt for women so desparate they were willing to desensatize them selves and sacrifice their modesty for stracci.

I don't think I was the only one who felt this sadness, but I was the only one who did anything about it. I gave one girl three rags. I didn't even place it in front of me, I shoved it in front of one of the other guys in my group to make his pile bigger. I didn't want her to shake her ass for me, I just wanted to make sure she didn't go home empty handed. I even made sure to put on a show of enjoyment for her edification.

I can't say I didn't judge. I judged, instead, on performence. I found the one girl who, inspite of her situation -- the bleak potential of a lifestyle made dancing for the working class men during their lunch break -- had the confidence to perform her best for three measly dollars.

I would have rather walked in, dropped a twenty in a jar to be divided among the dancers, and turned away. Alas, being a starving student, I need the money as much as they do.

They don't call it "Buy Fro a lap dance" for nothing.
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