A Branch Above: Beyond the Social Climber’s Reach

We think we leave it in high school.

Hell, middle school.

That hierarchical distribution of everyone and everything good, bad, and ugly.

But, as most of us know, we don’t.


Naysayers and opportunists and generally unpleasant people exude bile, and attempt to spew it at us throughout our lives. And we just have to put on our adult pants and give them the middle finger.

Alright, “adult pants” doesn’t reference something crotchless you’d get at Adam & Eve. (And why not an Adam & Steve line? Has no gay entrepreneur explored this as a counter, tongue-and-cheek–so to speak–chain? Anywho.)


Every now and then we each realize what exactly it is that makes us of sterner stuff than those who pine for greatness–who cling to, and attempt to ride, the coattails of those they envision as, one day, being at the top.

But it’s not that we realize it, per say. Because we already know.

You know, that thing that keeps you from tripping someone at band practice.

Or setting some terribly unpleasant, fairly rotten human being’s car ablaze and watching–smiling–as the glowing embers dance in your hollow, cold eyes.


You know.


That thing that keeps you from being mean-catty rather than funny-catty. That thing that separates you from being bitter and jealous to kind and congratulatory. That thing that, when misused and abused, ruins friendships.

And yet. Some people still don’t see that they’re being dicks. Or vaginas. Or any other stupid genitalia-like moron.

(Okay, sometimes maturity takes a brief hiatus.)

Or, even worse, they’ve deluded themselves into thinking that everyone else is jealous. Which, really, is sad and pathetic.

So, really. What is it that I’m getting to?


We all have people in our lives that just thrive on dancing from one drama bomb explosion to the next, absorbing every little bit they can before contorting their interpretation of a situation or statement into something it’s not, then releasing the untamed beast into the mainstream. Almost like rapping on a dingo farm fence, then nudging that hinge ever so slightly right as that clique of Lady Gaga meat dress-wearing tweens sashays by on their iPhone 10’s.

Too far?

Well, you get it.

Immaturity + Telephone Game + Big Yap = Unnecessary Drama.

And really, aren’t we all just too goddamned tired of it? I mean, really. If my shit is so blasted interesting, why am I not up my own ass taking a whiff?

(Again, too far? Probably.)


Maybe it’s just that Andy and I have been purging a lot of unnecessary material stuff from our lives, and that same mentality is oiling the cogs in our noggins. Or maybe it’s just a reminder that people sometimes morph into the Hyde of their former Jekyll self, and get stuck in the former’s skin.

It’s probably a little of both, with exhaustion mixed in. But ridiculous juvenile drama should really be reserved for the stage. Or Showtime. Spotlights should really be taken off peoples’ personal lives and directed elsewhere.

Hell, if the drama queens of the world want their spotlights, give’em to them. Throw in some glitter bombs and bitch sprinkles and you’ve got one annoying sundae for plenty of others to consume away from me and mine.

So, kittens, eat it up.

But don’t be surprised when the scales tip and you find yourself bloated like a tick–full of other peoples’ drama.

With an empty life.

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