Just to show that I don't only think of the lighter things in life (Viggo Mortensen and sex) all the time, I've decided to write about a topic I feel (kind of) strongly about, especially since I haven't slept in about 47 hours. It's a miracle I can still type right.
Growing up in the suburbs of Toronto taught me many things. Mainly that the only thing worse than the suburbs are the people who actually like living in them. I also learned a lot about the lengths people would go to to make their lives interesting. Not that I blame them, but if anybody should be self-mutilating, it's the parents whose subjected to several hours of Chiodos after coming home from a hard day at work (they work at an insurance firm. Everyone works at an insurance firm because it's the suburbs.)
Anyways, where I lived, all the cool kids had therapists. You needed either an acronym disorder (ADD, OCD, ADHD, etc, but you could fake it), a rough family life (again this was the suburbs, so nobody's parents actually beat them. They were just "so, like... shallow and stuff.") or an atrocious taste in music to make it in The Island.
Personally, I got the short end of the stick disorder-wise. I had/have dyspraxia, which isn't as cool as it sounds (and that's saying a lot because it doesn't sound cool at all.) It just meant I fell down a lot, couldn't do sports very well and had really bad handwriting. Instead of a therapist, I got a speech therapist (which incidentally isn't very high up on the social ladder), and a psychiatrist. 4 years, and all they'd told me is that I'm mature which I know for a fact is shit. I've woken up up in a velour cat suit and a tye-dye training bra ("Gollum as a Prostitute" in the catalogue) more times than I can count (after a few stiff drinks.) Needless to say, I'm not mature at all, so that was a waste of a lot of time and money but hey, it got me out of math.
What I'm trying to say is, if generally being clumsy and bad penmanship is a disorder, then we're all fucked. The only problem I ever had was the injuries sustained from falling down a lot, and the painkillers that followed. But eventually, they're going to find a "cure" for this involving pills and seratonin and brain changing things. Call me paranoid, but they're going to take over the world via Ritalin or something and everything's going end in a haze of 1984, Cat's Cradle, Horror-sci-fi, and Stanley Kubrick movies (not Lolita, I liked that one). Or maybe communism. I don't really know what I'm talking about anymore.
Shit, insomnia makes me sound like a Scientologist.
Anyways, where I lived, all the cool kids had therapists. You needed either an acronym disorder (ADD, OCD, ADHD, etc, but you could fake it), a rough family life (again this was the suburbs, so nobody's parents actually beat them. They were just "so, like... shallow and stuff.") or an atrocious taste in music to make it in The Island.
Personally, I got the short end of the stick disorder-wise. I had/have dyspraxia, which isn't as cool as it sounds (and that's saying a lot because it doesn't sound cool at all.) It just meant I fell down a lot, couldn't do sports very well and had really bad handwriting. Instead of a therapist, I got a speech therapist (which incidentally isn't very high up on the social ladder), and a psychiatrist. 4 years, and all they'd told me is that I'm mature which I know for a fact is shit. I've woken up up in a velour cat suit and a tye-dye training bra ("Gollum as a Prostitute" in the catalogue) more times than I can count (after a few stiff drinks.) Needless to say, I'm not mature at all, so that was a waste of a lot of time and money but hey, it got me out of math.
What I'm trying to say is, if generally being clumsy and bad penmanship is a disorder, then we're all fucked. The only problem I ever had was the injuries sustained from falling down a lot, and the painkillers that followed. But eventually, they're going to find a "cure" for this involving pills and seratonin and brain changing things. Call me paranoid, but they're going to take over the world via Ritalin or something and everything's going end in a haze of 1984, Cat's Cradle, Horror-sci-fi, and Stanley Kubrick movies (not Lolita, I liked that one). Or maybe communism. I don't really know what I'm talking about anymore.
Shit, insomnia makes me sound like a Scientologist.
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