Never trust anyone a day older than thirty. I've spent most of my young life more or less living by that ancient hippie code and I've had good reason to do so. My childhood is pockmarked by adult authority figures who have in one way shape or form betrayed my trust in humanity. Growing up, the lion share of my fiercest bullies have always been older than thirty. Most of them were people that I was told (by other people over thirty) to trust and confide in, teachers, clergy, psychiatrists, administrators, people who taught me how to hate myself and shut the fuck up. Thankfully, their lessons never stuck but they sure as hell left a mark.
This is part of the reason why I'm an anarchist and this is part of the reason why I'm so passionate about youth rights. Part of me will always be that angry thirteen year old goth girl thrashing to get out. This is also why my birthday this year tastes a little bit bitter sweet. You see, dearest motherfuckers, this Saturday I turned thirty and I'm tempted not to trust myself.... OK, maybe that's a touch extreme even for me but adulthood feels fucking weird as hell and I'm not quite sure what to do with it.
On the other hand, I've had to fight like holy fucking hell, tooth and nail, just to get here. The very fact that I've lived to see thirty outside of an institution is likely some form of small miracle. My first introduction to adulthood after high school, as an aspiring college student, ended in a calamitous nervous breakdown before I could even officially enroll. I spent the next six years as a prisoner of agoraphobia, locked up in a prison of my own design. I was a twenty-something shut-in and I've spent the last four years of my life struggling like hell just to have one and it all started with this blog. I have always been a writer. I've been horrifying adults with my prose since I learned to grip pen in my left hand. But when college blew up in my face I convinced myself that my dreams of being a literary terrorist like Mikhail Bakunin or Hunter S. Thompson were thoroughly shit-housed. I was way fucking wrong and I've done my damnedest to prove it.
I've been through a lot of shit since I've started this humble blog and you, my very few most dearest of motherfuckers have been there with me through it all. Since I became Comrade Hermit: anarcho-genderfuck jihadist, I've been in and out of therapy, I've come out of the closet and made peace with my torrential fluid kaleidoscope of a gender identity, I've gone toe to toe with fag-bashing trolls and transphobic therapists, I've made friends with more fabulous faggots and mental patients than a goddamn Lou Reed song, I officially broke up with my teenage squeeze Lenin and fell back in love with my ex, anarchism, I've busted my goddamn ass writing weekly manifestos and even managed to get a few published. I'm also roughly halfway through writing a psycho-sexual novella (think Georges Bataille meets John Hughes on DMT) and I'm volunteering at a thrift store (not as sexy as that ass Macklemore would have you believe). All while my tight tribe of a family has battled everything from Alzheimer's to car crashes and everything in between.
I haven't done it alone either. This blog probably wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for my anarchist faerie god parents, Angela Keaton and Thomas Knapp, who have shown the patience of saints in leading me through the decidedly passive-aggressive minefield of the Fifth Estate (the only one worth fighting for!). And god only knows that I would likely be locked up somewhere like Ted Kaczynski if it wasn't for the undying support of my aging parents and my uber-cis-hetero brother who have embraced my perpetual weirdness on every step of this strange fucking journey to god knows where. And of coarse I've had you dearest motherfuckers, the few proud misfits with the vision to recognize a crazy diamond in the rough when you see one. Nothing has ever meant more to me than being heard and you have heard me. For that I can only thank you.
So this is fucking thirty? I don't know if I like it but it's not like I can give it back for store credit. I'm not going to lie because that's not my style, this shit would be a fuck-ton easier if I were a sane cis-gender lesbian who actually got laid. But when was the last time you read about a great artist or revolutionary with a cushy childhood? As for the proverbial million dollar question- Does this mean I'm an adult now? My answer is a resounding fuck no. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be twenty-nine for the next thirty years, minimum. Here's hoping those years come with a little more pussy and a little less tragedy, but I wouldn't count on it. Either way, I'm in this thing for the long haul and all the adults in this room and the next won't shut me up.
Peace, Love, & Nostrovia- CH
Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post
* Whisper to a Scream (Birds Fly) by Icicle Works
* 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins
* Swim by Surfer Blood
* That's the Story of My Life by the Velvet Underground
* Celebrity Skin by Hole
* If I Ever Leave This World Alive by Flogging Molly
* Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd
* Keep the Car Running by Arcade Fire
* My Generation by the Who
* Please Don't Die by Father John Misty
