Sunday, January 22, 2012

Superhuman

This morning I came to a disturbing conclusion: I believe in a master race.

Now before you go burning your Greertopia flags or calling the APD to report suspicious activity (like that would get you anywhere anyway), allow me the opportunity to clarify:

*I do not believe in racial superiority.
*I do not believe in superiority of nationality or of thought process (though I AM right and you ARE wrong.)
*I do not believe in the superiority of one religion or of one sex or of one subgroup.

But I DO believe in high school, and, having watched "The Heathers" last night for the first time in my admittedly small life, I can tell you, with certainty, that we--every single, solitary one of us-- are still in it.

Still seated in the h.s. cafeteria of life, you and I and everyone else are multi-tasking: taking inventory of the who is wearing what, who is speaking to whom and gossiping about God knows what, all while ingesting some preprocessed mac-n-cheese and waiting for the bell to ring so we can finally get up, get out and get on with our lives.

Well, kids, sit tight, 'cause it ain't never gonna happen.

I know, I know. "Veronica [Erin], why are you pulling my dick? I mean, I've WAY moved on from high school. I have a job. And a husband/wife. And kids. Hell, I've even got a mortgage!"

And to you I say, "kudos." Now, shut your cake hole and sit your ass back at the band table, loser!

Because you and I both know that life's accomplishments will never elevate you from your place with the drama geeks to a spot on the cheerleading squad. There's a pecking order here, and everyone knows where they fall.

Face it, my friends, there IS a master race. You knew them in high school and you know them now. Bow down! Because if you don't, you might as well transfer to Washington. Transfer to Jefferson. Because no one at Westerberg is gonna let you play their reindeer games.

The popular people. That uber-class of superhuman that displays the rare combination of looks, prowess, brains, charm, fashion sense, charisma and an overly-developed sex and bitch factor that conveniently come without the guiding voice of a shoulder angel. Sure, not all members of the elite class exhibit all of these traits, but every card-carrying member displays at least two. And it's the combinations of the characteristics that make "popular" so difficult to readily define.

Much like pinpointing the meaning of life or justifying your brother's performance art, popularity appears to be defined by the person doing the beholding: fascinating, then, that though we (the populace) cannot seem to come to a consensus on the exact definition of popularity, we all concur on who's "in" and who's "out." And we behave accordingly.

I know where I stand. Or sit. My happy ass is at the arts table. Sure, I'm above YOU who are stuck sitting with the Math-letes, but I pay no attention to YOU, as I am entirely too busy vying for a seat with the Heathers. And I'd sell out my friends for a bunch of Swatch dogs and Diet Coke heads.

There was a time I thought I was above this. I like to think I once had a shoulder angel, or, at the very least, a singing cricket in a vest that would drag me away from Pleasure Island.

But I don't.

I'm guzzling booze and growing ears like a jackass just like the rest of you. Us. Them.

My identity seems to have become lost in the pronouns.

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