Cynical

Cynicism is irony that doesn't know when or how to smile.  Cynicism is the scab on top of an open wound.  Irony is the scar that forms later.  I have often been accused of cynicism, especially when I was young.  Now that I'm older and have learned how to laugh at myself, as well as everyone else (the question here is, am I laughing at everyone else or is everyone else laughing at me?  Hey, at least we're all laughing)  In my twenties I was even almost physically attacked by one sad pathetic man whom I shall not name in this blog.  Let's just say that he was older than me, and one of those classic self-hating gay Christians of a certain vintage.  In a restaurant with others following a Sunday evening church service I thought I was being funny and others were laughing when the self-hating gay Christian of a certain vintage lashed out and screamed in my face "Why are you so CYNICAL!!!!  I was gobsmacked and simply asked him what the problem was.  Now that I'm older and more ironical than cynical I would probably have smiled and said "Hey, I'm only getting started and if you're really good I'll even see that you get a free ticket."

I suppose I've been angry all my life.  At fourteen one fellow, shocked at what he was hearing, cried out in dismay "Why are you so vicious?"  He was one of the older kids, nineteen or so, I was hanging out with in the park during that summer, smoking pot and creating entertainment for local police.  He was the first person whom I ever saw snort cocaine.  I had good reason even then to be angry, or vicious, or cynical:  my parents were negotiating a bitter divorce and I was already a survivor of prolonged child abuse.  I was also above average bright and above average bored and numbing my pain with the free tokes generously offered in the local legend park that summer.

At twenty-one an individual whom I quite admired and felt inspired by (like most twenty-one year olds I was always out searching for my mentor of the week) told me that I was very angry.  I told him in a not very kind voice why I was angry and if he didn't shut up about it I would get even angrier if he didn't shut his cake hole (Okay, I made up this last part)

I spent my twenties in denial about being a punk.  A really cool lesbian musician I used to work with commented one day recently that I must have been a punk when I was young.  I kind of nodded and found myself embracing my spikey, razor wire-bedecked inner punk.  I still haven't stopped bleeding.