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12-08-01 - 9:36 p.m. So I'm out to dinner with Bryan and Justin and there's this group of two girls and a guy at a table near us, talking very loudly. We unintentionally overhear snippets of their conversation until something that catches my ear makes me pay close attention to what they say next. They were the kind of people who ended every sentence with a questioning tone. You know. That kind. Typical California. I do it too, except not nearly as much as these folks did. I've given them clever names to tell them apart. Tiffani: Oh my god, that psycho guy last night was sooo annoying? Zeke: Dude, I know? Bambi: What's his problem, anyway? Tiffani: His brother? Like, told me? that he like, cuts himself? just to like, watch it bleed. And he like, um...he like, hurts himself, right? Cuz he's got like, problems? Zeke: Dude, I know people like that. It's fuckin' psycho? Bambi: So he does it on purpose? No way? Tiffani: Yeah, and like, supposedly? he gets like, a rush? out of it? And like, he was in an asylum er something? Bambi: Eww, that's so like, creepy? Cuz he was like, hot? Tiffani: Totallay! Zeke: I guess it just goes to show you can't like, judge a book by like, it's, y'know, cover. Dude. I found myself pulling my sleeves down over my hands throughout their conversation, looking down at my plate. It's not that their opinions would have mattered to me. It's more along the lines of, Is that how self-injury is perceived? Do people really think it's "psycho" or "freaky?" Will I have to use the clumsy-bagel-cutting excuse to explain the scar on my palm forever? At what point will I feel comfortable walking outside without covered or fisted hands? And when am I going to learn that Smirnoff Ice is not the way to get past these kinds of feelings?
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