07 September 2001 ~ I hate the whole world...

Went to Catholic Charities today.

They asked, "what can we help you with?"

I said, "I'm hungry."

They said, "okay. Fill out some papers and we'll give you some food."

I filled in my name and address on a little card. They asked, "Can we ask how much your family makes in a year?"

I said, "I don't know. Who's my family?" A stupid question. Probably sounds kind of melodramatic to you, but I honestly didn't know who they were asking about.

They said, "you, and whomever you live with."

I said, "I don't know. Maybe just write down something between zero and twenty thousand."

They asked, "And can we ask what your religion is?"

I said, "non-practicing." I almost told them I'm a vampire, just to freak them out. But they were nice people, so I refrained.

Catholic Charities is the place that hooks you up with free food when you've tried your very best to DO your very best, and Binghamton flips you off anyway. They're the ones who give you three grocery bags of food because Java Joe's won't let you have tastes of their bread anymore, and the Hess Mart has raised their price on orange juice, and nobody will hire you because they're suspicious of young people with highly-public onlien journals, and nobody who HAS hired you will keep you on, because they're assholes. Catholic Charities is the group that feels guilty for a world that tells kids "you can be whatever you want to be, so long as you avoid drugs and freaky people," and then makes it absolutely impossible for those kids to be ANYTHING at all, regardless of whether or not they avoid drugs or freaky people. Catholic Charities is the group that takes pity on you when everybody else is laughing.

They gave me some food. More importantly, they gave me some cranberry juice, chock full of Vitamin C. I can feel a resurgence of mono coming on -- surely it has something to do with the stress of getting fired, and letting Chris get me drunk the other night at the Belmar -- and I'll be damned if I'm going to lay around for another three months. Vitamin C and echinacea tablets are going to heal me, dammit; I'll simply not have it any other way.

I walked home with my groceries.

A very fat man in a yellow van drove by, waving and honking and making what appeared to be a crude gesture.

I flipped him off.

What the fuck's your problem, buddy? You think you're so damned much better than me because you've got a vehicle? You think you're so much better than me because you eat five tubs of lard and cream cheese a day? You think you're special because you've got yourself a wanker? You think you're better than me because you've got a few years on me? You think you're so fucking special, huh, that you've got to beep at me, jeer at me? Well, go to hell, buddy. You're the one who deserves to be where I am right now: justifying yourself "for statistical purposes" to Catholic Charities so they'll take pity on YOU and give you food. YOU ought to be right here where I am, trudging down the street, exhausted, with three heavy bags. YOU ought to be the one that some jackass is making fun of from his van. YOU ought to be standing right here and I ought to be THROWING shit at you.

Why are YOU laughing? Why do YOU think it's so funny? You and the rest of the people your age in this town have sacrificed me, their young people, so that someday YOU can retire comfortably in your cottage on a lake somewhere. You and ALL OF YOU have put me here. You pollute my rivers, you fire me from my jobs, you LAUGH at me on the street when I'm fucking HUNGRY and I've gone to the only place in town that will give me a can of cranberry juice so nobody has to watch me die of starvation. You make nasty gestures at me like I'm your little sex toy. You make my job contingent on how much cleavage I'll show you. You told me I could be whatever I wanted to be, and then you made it impossible for me to be anything at all. Well, I'll tell you something, buddy. I'll tell you something and I'll tell ALL of you big responsible adults, with all your selfish money and your big special van and your big fat weenies: you can go to hell, you can just go to hell. Helena Thomas is something like an elephant: she never forgets. And you'll get back what you've given to her, which is nastiness.

Went to Tom's Gift Shop, my former place of employment, to pick up my paycheck. Tom, almighty Tom, gave me my check and reminded me that I borrowed five dollars from him a week ago. Fucking asshole. Fire me and then ask for your five bucks back? Kick me when I'm down? As if he REALLY needs that five dollars. Not that I wasn't willing to give it back; I did owe him, after all, but my GAHD, five dollars to ME is a day's worth of food. Five dollars to him is NOTHING. You know, that place raises their prices on things SO high that they're STILL making a profit when employees buy stuff at FORTY PERCENT OFF? But he's got to have his five dollars back. Mister Almighty Tom had to have his five bucks back. Poor little man. I bet Almighty Tom has a teeny little wanker, so he's got to make up for it with his nasty little power trips.

I'm too tired to be angry. I don't feel good. I'm drinking all this stupid cranberry juice, and it tastes like pity, and it's just making me angrier.

I hate this place. I hate everybody here right now. Except Norman and Chris and my mom and brothers. But if the rest of you fell into the river right now and hit your heads and floated away gurgling for air, I'd be the one laughing.

I hate the whole world today.

~Helena*