Chapter 5a: In Which My Shit Gets Vandalized . . . By A Person (Probably)

I received another reminder today of how out of place my van is in this idyllic wooded town:  some asshole had written "RAPE VAN" in two foot high letters in the grime of my back window.

On seeing this, I thought about an interchange that occurred last night when it was revealed I work at Outback Steakhouse.  It went something like this:

Random Girl:  Hey, at least it's not McDonald's

Drunk Guy:  It's so much worse than McDonald's

RG:  What? Why?

DG: 'Cuz it's BOURGEOISIE BULLSHIT!

My job may have seemed too bourgeois for my classmate, but my van was worthy of ridicule by the true bourgeois, and I wanted to call bullshit on the whole thing.  The world seemed to be defining all the small details of my life in terms of my (low) class, and I wanted to lash back.  I wanted to cut down every goddamn tree in the town of Lake Forest, and move Lake Forest thirty miles away from its lake, because those points of natural beauty had served only to drive up property values and attract the sort of fuckers who think they're better than someone based on the car they drive.  I wanted to take apart every brick of regal castles like Harlan and Carnegie, because these ivory tower signifiers had served to breed the sort of fuckers that look down on someone for trying to do an honest day's work for any company that isn't on some liberal-friendly list.

I drive my "rape van" because I can't afford anything else.  I work my "bourgeoisie bullshit" job because my parents can't afford to send me to school, so I have to pay my own way.  Go fuck yourself.