Fucked Up College Kids File 431

eZine lover (@eZine)

Published in 

Fucked Up College Kids

 · 5 years ago

  

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   = 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 

                                They 
                                ---- 

     I hate waking up to the realization that I've lost something. 
Particularly those first few moments of panic when I try in vain to remember 
the last place I saw it. I backtrack mentally, through people and places and 
time. It occurs to me that I can't remember when I last had it. The thoughts 
whirl faster through my mind. How long has it been since I've seen it? How 
could I not have noticed that it was gone? If I've gone on this long without 
it, is it less important than I've always thought? How will I get by without 
it? Will I ever find it, or is it gone forever? 
     That happened to me just this morning. I woke up and realized that I'd 
lost myself. I don't know how long I've been gone, and can't remember the 
last time I've seen me. Luckily, I have many other selves. Fitting into one 
is as easily accomplished as stepping into a pair of jeans. Like jeans, some 
selves are more comfortable than others. The self I wear depends on my 
agenda for the day. My work self isn't very comfortable, the fabric is a bit 
stiff and unforgiving. My family self is somewhat comfortable, but a little 
too flowery for my taste, and too much pastel washes me out. My friend self 
is bright and cheery, and so comfortable that sometimes it feels as if I'm 
wearing nothing. But only sometimes. Then there's my alone self, the 
techno-age me that hungers for knowledge and, given even a few moments of 
solitude, submerges itself into a world of computers and networks and 
protocols and code.While I enjoy the way this me feels, it's still not the 
original me. I miss the person I used to be. 
     I was kind and considerate and giving. I would, and oftentimes did, 
give my last dollar to a homeless person. They told me it was foolish and 
called me an easy mark, so I stopped. I no longer give money to the 
indigent. I no longer look at those people in their alcohol-stained clothing 
and toothless grins and wonder what path they chose to lead them to those 
ends. I no longer feel the pity and sympathy I once did. Instead I feel 
contempt.  
     I was an idealistic dreamer. They told me to get my head out of the 
clouds and act responsibly, so I stopped. I no longer stare at the walls and 
daydream, my pencil tapping a relentless beat on the table top. I no longer 
have the willingness to swallow my fear and take the risk, the risk that 
quickens my heartbeat. Instead I feel apathy.  
     I was caring and selfless, and always there for those close to me. 
Friends came to me regularly for advice, knowing I'd be there with a 
shoulder to cry on and a willing ear. They told me to worry more about 
myself and less about others, so I stopped. I no longer am able to offer 
endless hours of advice and consolation. I no longer spend hours waiting for 
someone's tears to dry from my sleeve. Instead I feel impatience.  
     I was open and honest. My soul shone through my eyes. I saw nothing 
wrong with letting everyone know just how I felt. They told me I was leaving 
myself open for hurt, that I was too vulnerable, so I stopped.  I no longer 
wear my heart on my sleeve. I no longer let you see how much your words 
hurt. Instead, I show indifference. 
     They told me I'd change as I grew older, and they were right. They told 
me that my perception were off, that the world wasn't the perfect place I 
saw it as being, and they were right. I hate them for being right. Long ago, 
I promised myself I'd never change. I'd grow, yes, but I'd never lose the 
person I was. I was wrong. I hate me for being wrong. 
     Maybe I'll never again be what I once was. Maybe, in some apathetic, 
indifferent stupor, I ripped apart my original self and used the fabric to 
build the other, diluted selves. Everyone deserves a second chance, though. 
So if you happen to see me out wandering in the cold darkness, please send 
me home. It's lonely here without me. 

 
krystalia 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions  = 
= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com                       (Mail is welcomed)  = 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
=  To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with  = 
=   "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back   = 
=    issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed.   = 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
= AnonFTP     FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK                      = 
=             FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids           = 
=             FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK                       = 
=             FTP.ETEXT.ORG/pub/Zines/FUCK                                = 
= WWW         http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho                         = 
=             http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html                        = 
=             http://www.simunye.com/fuck                                 = 
=             http://www.dis.org/se7en/fuck                               = 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
=       (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author.        = 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=