1. The Philanthropist:
When I was working at the city market in my hometown at the age of 19, I encountered one of the best/worst women I would ever have the pleasure of running into. She was buying two sandwiches, and had this smug sense of satisfaction on her face. Buying sandwiches isn’t typically something to be terribly proud of. In terms of good and evil in the world, I’d say it’s somewhere in between not murdering people and reading Us Weekly. Not to judge a book by its totally cocksure appearance, but I could smell the bitch off her a mile away.
Without any reason whatsoever, she announced to all the employees at our deli that these sandwiches were for “a homeless.” Not “a homeless person,” which still, wouldn’t be an ace of bass thing to say, but rather, “a homeless.” I’m not even going to take issue with her inability to form a logical sentence, but since when is it okay to announce such a minor charitable contribution as if you’re Gandhi? Has our society plummeted so far that we’re unable to toss a couple bucks towards a sandwich for another human being without wanting a golden statue in our honor erected in the town square? I don’t know. Maybe it’s us, or maybe it was just her. I wanna say it was just her. Let’s go with that.
2. The Empath:
After living in England for eight months with a study abroad program, I was heading home to Canada for the summer. To catch my flight in London, I took a train from Manchester and on the way, sadly, a man tried to commit suicide by jumping on the tracks. Of course this caused quite a delay and there were many different emotions among the passengers. A lot of people would now be missing flights, appointments, and other things that no longer seemed as important. I’m not Angelina Jolie; I’m not perfect. I don’t even know why I used Angelina Jolie as my reference of what perfect is — just ignore that. Deep down I was a little annoyed but because I’m not a monster (am I?), I felt bad about it. For the most part the other passengers did the same. But this one lady, this Mother Teresa, this goddess of all things warm and compassionate, wasn’t afraid to publicly voice her opinion. In a shrill, loud voice that practically echoed through the compartment she asked the following, to no one in particular:
“WHY COULDN’T HE HAVE JUST TAKEN PILLS LIKE A NORMAL PERSON!” I couldn’t be mad at her. It would be like being mad at an emotionally-stunted lion for eating a zebra. I just wanted to give her a big hug, take her home with me, and bring her to family reunions to make me look less awful. God bless you lady, wherever you are. God bless.
3. The Loyal Fans:
Maybe this doesn’t quite fit in here, but it’s a story that makes me feel warm and cozy so I’ll tell it anyway. This is an encounter with a group of people who weren’t terribly mean, but were just so contently idiotic that if there weren’t hundreds of them, and if I had any money whatsoever, I would volunteer to pay for their future education, their sterilization, anything to get them away from the disastrous spiral their lives had become. It’s fairly evident just glancing at my twitter account that nothing I say there is remotely genuine. In trying to be funny, and probably (definitely) not succeeding, I tweeted at the creator of Grey’s Anatomy, Shonda Rhimes, the following: “Is Meredith a good doctor in real life.” I don’t blame Rhimes for not taking a look at my account to see it was just a string of attempts to be funny. I do sort of take issue with her not being able to discern that I was maybe, just maybe, kidding, as she is a very intelligent and extremely successful writer and producer. But I mainly take issue with the hundreds and hundreds of fans who piled on top of her curt “Meredith is not real” response. Like, hundreds. And not ONE of them was like “guys, she was maybe being sarcastic.” Even Amy fucking Brenneman was up in that shit with a “WTF?” Amy Brenneman, guys. I got a
WTF from Amy Brenneman. I have nothing against “the Brens,” as I call her, or have now, in this moment, just decided to call her, but COME ON. These fans called me stupid, deranged, pathetic — all the adjectives you might toss at an obsessive, delusional person. But not one of her fans knew I was kidding. I feel like that may say something about her audience. Just a bit.
4. The Darren:
This guy gets no title, because he doesn’t deserve one. Maybe if he learned to play nice he would have gotten a title. He’s obviously less important than the sandwich or train lady, and his name shouldn’t even be spoken in the same sentence as Shonda Rhimes. But still, he exists. Or at least I think he still exists. Last I heard of him he was living with his drug dealer girlfriend, so sounds like he’s doing great in life. My problem with Darren stems back to the seventh grade, when we first met (cue romantic music). We were both quirky tweens inspired by the same poetry and we fell in love. Wait. No. That would have made an adorable movie, but unless the male protagonist called the female protagonist a “fat lesbian” every day for two years, that movie wasn’t our movie. Darren was my torturer. Like, it was as if we were in a 35-year-long marriage — that’s how obsessed he was with making my life miserable. He would bump into me and then announce to the class that I had stepped on his toes and he needed to go to the hospital. I wish I had that kind of power. Maybe if I had really committed to the role I could have turned the tables. He did this stuff on a daily basis, and although I admired his
commitment, his work grew stale. I mean, try out some new material, Darren. Everyone gets it: I’m a fat lesbian.
5. The Popular Girls:
Pretty, popular girls are the best. I imagine them living in this pristine world where magical things happen every day. Kind of like a life-sized Polly Pocket. Obviously this isn’t true; everyone grows up with shitty things happening to them, but there’s something about the pretty, popular girls I used to know…they were no Darren, no, they were far more sneaky. Darren was a piece of cake (sorry Darren, I mentioned food, such a fat lesbian move). These bitches were crafty. At the age of 13, I was invited to one of their birthday parties. Behind my back, they told a boy to ask me to dance. The song we danced to was “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden. It was horrific. Not to be dramatic, but it was probably the worst thing that has ever happened to any human ever. When the song stopped I was so relieved, until I heard one of the girls say, “Oh my God. That was SO nice of him to ask her.” What the fuck? Who am I, the elephant man? Cool your jets, hon. He didn’t just cure cancer. But now, I’m stuck with a “dancing complex,” where I assume anyone asking me to dance is doing it because they were dared to. Ugh, my life is sooo She’s All That. Minus the gorgeous makeover and getting a bro to like me in the end.
I will never NOT love/hate these people for the experiences they’ve given me. Some had little to no impact on my life, some had quite a bit. I truly harbor no resentment towards any of these people, because they’ve given me stories to tell. And there’s nothing I love more than a good story about horrible people.