It's All In Your Head

I'm an elitist. I write and apparently come off as an asshole. I comment on other people's blogs and they attack back. And for a moment I ask myself: Am I really that awful when I write? Do I come off as that pretentious? That I'm intentionally trying to piss someone off?

Then a friend, yes a friend, which is my first clue that I'm not that bad. I have friends. A friend simply said:

best not to care what others think, be you and the people who get it get it and eff the people who don't because isn't it their loss in the long run?

Brilliant. And like that I don't care anymore. I even did a big thing, that I normally wouldn't do in the past. I didn't read the last comment that this alleged blogger sent me. Therefore in my mind, I got the last word.

I am an Elitist.

In other news I finished a play recently I would like to discuss for a moment:

The Baltimore Waltz by Paula Vogel — A play written in 1992 about a woman who gets ATD (Acquired Toilet Disease) and is extremely deadly. So she travels to Europe in a dreamlike fantasy, seeing the world and fucking her brains out before she dies. A brilliant reactionary piece to the AIDS epidemic from a Lesbian woman's point-of-view (Vogel is a Lesbian, but her lead is straight). The ending is heart wrenching, but I enjoyed it. I would have loved to seen Cherry Jones play the lead, but alas I won't.

Some of my favorite quotes:

ANNA: When you're a much older man, and you've loved many women, you'll be a wonderful lover if you're just a little bit nervous...like you are right now. Because it will always be the first time.

or;

ANNA: In lovemaking, he's all fury and heat. His North Sea pounding against your Dreamer. And when you look up and see his face, red and huffing, it's hard to imagine him ever having been a newborn, tiny, wrinkled and seven pounds.

That is, until afterwards. When he rises from sleep and he walks into the bathroom. And there he exposes his soft little derriere, and you can still see the soft baby flesh.

and;

THE THIRD MAN: Unbeknownst to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, there is a Seventh Stage for the dying. There is a growing urger to fight the sickness of the body with the health of the body. The Seventh Stage: Lust.