Friday, August 29, 2003

Hi Hopheads:



In the middle of actually getting some work done today I passed out for two hours with no warning. Did this happen to you too?



I didn't watch the MTV Awards last night. I "should" have for my "work," but somehow I just kind of didn't. Sounds like it was a lot of shitty bands performing--Metallica, Coldplay... bummer I missed Xtina/Britney/Madonna but whatever. I have the feeling, somehow, i didn't miss shit. And you can take that to the bank, Frank. Plus, there were no good rock bands getting awards--all Good Charlotte this and AFI that and Evanescence whuh?



On that note, I want to give you this number to keep on hand: 1-800 SUICIDE. It's a number you call when you want to commit suicide. They will talk to you and make you feel better. I'm totally serious. It's a hotline. Just keep it around because you never know when someone around you might freak out.



I just found out suicide is the 2nd biggest cause of death among college students, and it doesn't surprise me a bit. When I was looking through all my youthful memorabilia in Minneapolis last week, I could see clearly that a funny, cocky 17 year old girl (me) had turned into a self-loathing, chronically depressed and overeating Steve Miller fan simply by going to college.



I blame my parents entirely for this. Sorry, Dad. Daddy, in his loving determination to see me survive and succeed, told me I would go to a UC away from home or I would be out on my own with no help from them. For whatever reason, my spine hadn't yet fully formed at 17. I truly believed I would die without my parents' support. I truly envisioned myself serving frozen yogurt for a while, then living in some crashpad in Fairfax, becoming a club girl, getting into drugs, having sex with 30-year-old cocaine dealers, becoming a go-go dancer and backup singer, wearing lots of thigh-highs, becoming a scenester/groupie, turning anorexic, and then dying in a bathroom stall either by some powder or a razor blade. To me, the idea of living on my own in L.A. at that time literally equalled clubs, anorexia, and drugs. I didn't have the confidence in myself to know I could totally handle the city on my own. It probably stemmed from the time I ran away from home at 10 or whatever, and my parents made me watch "Dawn: Portrait of A Teenage Runaway" starring Jan Brady.



Anyway. If I could teach that 17-year-old one thing, or if I could teach my future child one thing, it would be that parental disapproval is not the end of the world. There is no earthquake, or Ice Catastrophe, when a parent turns cold. The LAPD do not come and throw you in the squad car. Also, the Giant Locusts do not come and eat your earlobes. The Killer Bees still won't materialize, and Sasquatch will not appear to prove his existence. The Ghosts will stay in the way backyard like always, and Yertle the Turtle won't turn you into a slave.



Parental approval is not worth being miserable. In fact, nobody's approval is worth sacrificing your own instincts about what's right for you. It's a lesson I'm still dealing with, actually, because it applies to societal approval and personal relationships too.



There's lots of things I want to do that would prolly gain the disapproval of the people I love. Fuck it, man.



I wish I could jump the time-space continuum and go hang out with my 17 year old self again, and let her know she's OK. I think you can do that, actually. My favorite person does it all the time. He doesn't know he's doing it, because he believes in linear time. But I know that everything he does is to liberate the 13 year old back there, who's still stuck in junior high and can't get out. Since I don't believe in linear time, I know I can do the same.



This was a very personal entry and now I feel funny. I should let you know, in the next month I am going to turn this into a private blog. I have this pretty public project coming up that is going to make me want a lot more privacy. I don't know what the procedure is to gain access to a private blog but I guess we'll find out.



love n stuff

me







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