I feel like an outcast. It all started with being a fish out of water as a South Aussie studying in glitzy Los Angeles. My female peers around me initially coyly flattered me, whether it was complimenting on my art or my outfits.
When I tried to get to know them better, I would learn they were strongly vocal about Asian and Hispanic issues within America. Obviously topics I knew nothing about and yet I smiled and enjoyed their company.
With time however, little drops of ignorance would slip through my lips. They tended to ruffle up a bit. I simply didn’t understand the mannerisms of this common species, the Californicus Social Justus Wenchus. Their thick coat of makeup from Sephora would begin to peel back. Underneath a veneer of friendship, a malevolent agenda now oozed from their pores.
You are white, so you can’t really get it’
They said. Their tone playful yet icy, as they swished their hair. A forked tongue poked out momentarily. The epitome of passive-aggressiveness.
I realised only then and there at age 18, my whiteness. I realised now that this set me apart. I was an outsider, now trying to navigate the wide hostile expanse that was the land of California. The college journey ahead of me was littered with uncharted territory and unamicable exchanges.
Mind games of these types have toyed with me my whole life and taken their toll on me.
Two words I think of often are outcast and incel. I love people, but I also hate them. My misanthropy melts away usually, as I focus on the magic of solitude, music and my rich inner worlds.
So what does being an incel mean? Physically ugly, rotten, lazy, withdrawn, hopeless and undeniably evil. Shrouded in identical dark hoodies, humorously just like how we visualise all villains in fiction. They cling to online forums as the only way they can express their vitriol for the rest of the world, a bit like me and my need to blog.
We now vilify virgins as unlovable, which is funny since all throughout antiquity they were a symbol of purity. Only now we see it mocked because our 21st century likes to have an easy jab at shy people.
At an extracurricular architecture class I was forced to take at Calarts, the teacher mentioned something about ‘virgin architecture’ styles or something. The next second he obnoxiously jabbed; ‘well of course none of you are one’. Wow. Really dude. That’s the issue with these big gay liberal art schools populated and run by subhuman filth.
These sorts of moments have haunted me just in how inferior they made me feel at the time. Maybe I can finally express them here and rid myself of the sting.
Nobody deserves to feel like an inferior outsider, a butt of a joke.
Oh, I would have liked to hold my younger self and console her that it was beautiful to be a virgin, despite the jokes people flicked around. I however let that festering insecurity warp my juvenile brain.
I was hurt by suddenly being lumped into a category with murderers and 4chan incels. People who were typically angry, vile and probably deserving of being unlovable.
This however, made me feel like shit for years.
Thanks a lot society, I have always hated you. This is where I retreated into myself.
I can’t say I was a virgin forever to all the people I know, but I can say it to a blog? The first boy I had ever been with made fun of me so all my hard work concealing it didn’t matter.
I would argue the true evil is how much pressure is placed on individuals to obtain normalcy and ‘success’ in all aspects of life.
It all depends on elements of social success over everything.
Social circles? How many friends is necessary to make someone likeable? Is it sad for me to admit I can count on one hand people that I might truly enjoy conversations with. I probably only know one person with whom I could have true conversations or cry with. Maybe because I am reluctant to consider someone a friend until I feel like I’ve let my guard down around them. I don’t feel ok until I actually said something lewd or shown them art I like.
Of course I crave profound connections. I crave this from the bottom of my heart. Yet it is hard to make close friends the older you get, the more you move, the more tragic life events peel you away from routines and places.
A partner? Not everyone has one. How many nights have I spent alone, wondering at the back of my mind I was truly incapable of love. Even worse, feeling that I wasn’t doing enough. Yet every time I tried online dating my romantic heart felt squashed into oblivion by the reality that basic men just want a wet as pussy. It eats away at the soul, no matter how you try to remind yourself that you deserve intimacy.
In my paranoia I feel the eyes of people in my life on me. How long has she been single? Ew, she’s still drawing stupid anime boys. Almost cloyingly wondering if I’ve even had sex probably. That’s the eyes I feel on me, whether its true or not.
Why am I bitterly cautious in all relationships? Why am I shyer and shyer? It’s because when I didn’t understand some garbage, people snapped at me and told me I was ‘white and didn’t get it‘.
They relish scorning the ‘other’. The oblivious bitch from somewhere in diddly doo Australia.
The final form of social success is obviously social media.
Social media. Fads. Engagements. Followers. Shallowness. Superficiality. Skin deep. Control over the masses. Brainwashing. Authoritarianism. Deprived of individuality. Death of art.
The internet used to just be fun flash games, what went wrong.
People are exiled from social groups just by not wanting to post a stinkin’ black square on Instagram. I watched that happen when I was manic, it played out in my head like a dystopian future taking charge.
I am not fond of aggressive political correctness. Twitter people will have unfollowed me long before they glance upon this sentence. This is what gets you kicked out as an outcast in 2021.
Call me lady-lncel or outcast, I don’t care.
Another horrid moment in college, I was informed by a friend that their other friend was non-binary. This was my first time learning about trans and non-binary ever. It was still a mostly unknown topic back in 2013 especially for a withdrawn kid from Adelaide. Only a day or so later when I mentioned this person in third person, I accidently let a female pronoun slip.
Thats the very big no no.
I felt the many eyes of these girls scorch into my soul, with the unmentionable fury of a multi-headed hydra.
With one word, I teetered on the precipice of unleashing the wrath of this beast.
The person wasn’t even present in this moment. There were no feelings to be hurt and yet, this is it.
I obviously didn’t respect human life by not memorising the pronouns in their Twitter bio.
Even now, I feel uncomfortable around people who change their pronouns and name. Maybe not everyone is the same, however I am terrified I will provoke the same wrath.
The scorn on their mugs was always so ridiculous. As if I was taking a steamy dump right on their dear grandmothers’ grave.
Not too long after that, I was swiftly exiled from this group. I could insert some slurs here right now but wont.
That is the complete social exile of the modern world.
Of course I like what LGBTQ+ are fighting for I just wish they didn’t often divide themselves from ‘others’. White, straight, cis and above all, ignorant. Unfortunately those words can describe me, the South Aussie girl that had just tried to be friends all those years ago.
She didn’t mean to use the wrong pronoun. She didn’t assume she knew anything about racial issues.
She just wanted to be friends.
I wish I was still a good-natured smiling girl. She has long become jaded and cold with this bitterness. Feel bad for me I don’t care. It’s like my soft core calcified over into a gemstone. It’s just a glittering rock but doesn’t know how to feel calm around people.
When I was manic I had been briefly obnoxious to someone I respected, a very famous artist from my Calarts days. He had made a story post talking about ‘indigenous Polynesian issues with whites’ or something and I ridiculed it.
Instead of him being mature he retorted quite rudely. Maybe expected.
Nobody gives a shit about how bipolar transforms a person. I just suddenly transformed into a disrespectful monster.
Any semblance of respect I had worked hard at for all these years had now evaporated. Just because I have bipolar. So all those years smiling at him in Calarts hallways meant nothing now?
That was my pain, my shame. Being the ‘other’.
I had to deal with the social shame and ostracization I had brought upon myself these last 5 months. I became an outcast in my mind and in this online sphere by having tainted my name.
I only started to move beyond trauma by breaking away from my memories of social media. Only on this blog can I maybe even slightly start to express myself.
Everyone wants to feel special. Everyone wants to feel in.
We are social creatures and now use social media to fill the gap in our hearts that crave connection, laughter, excitement and drama. Community. So we divide people up based on fandoms, politics, job industries, nationality, sexuality, race and what else?
What does it mean to be an outcast in 2021? To not have a tribe where you can safely be yourself. The pariah out wandering the desert fringes, scrounging around for whatever bush tucker helps them survive another day.
Wearing nothing but tattered rags and a sack on her back, this wanderer set out. Through the bleak and blinding sand dunes for days on end without water and sustenance. She thought she might die, she questioned her existence, but eventually she found her way all the way back to the holy land of Straya’. A dry koala infested region where the rivers flow with crappy beer. She turned her back on the land of California and its hostile inhabitants.
So now she is hiding away in the dusty cave of a blog. Happily munching on berries from the two people who like her posts.
Being an outcast is fine.