#she's fairly ubiquitous as a therapist

[lux-et-astra]

out of interest why does everyone seem to think that dinah lance is a therapist?? i've read a good deal of birds of prey and as far as i know she's either a florist or a singer - there must be a reason people think she's a therapist cause it's so unavoidable in fic but i haven't found it in the comics so far

[vpressed-blog]

Am I Cool Enough?

Version 7.0 of me looks for ways to transmogrify instead of evolve. Yet, she never stops to think about the fact that one can’t change the skin they’re in. Yes, plastic surgery does exist, but I’d rather stay looking the way I am now than fall into a vortex of needles and knives, trying to find who I am on the inside by projecting my desires on the out. I am not the brand of NYU chic that dresses like the homeless, or rocks multiple colors in my hair (though I have been dying to dye it since I arrived). I don’t check the boxes of being from a rich family, or owning a trendy apartment in Brooklyn, or walking around as a wild, reckless art student, ready for an adventure to drop into my DMs. Today, being cool is being everything that other people want you to be with a splash of the bizarre (i.e. one mysterious food allergy). Reinvention is a complicated and enticing task, like a tall glass of absinthe in a chatter-filled, swanky hotel restaurant. And I watch small beads of water roll down this glass chalice, circling it with my eyes like a cheetah hunting its prey. I throw out pieces of my closet, buy random hair colors from Duane Reade, and remake the pledge to successfully upkeep painted nails, all the while wondering: when a random selection of classes, late-night rendezvous, and the social anxiety of fitting in are stripped away, what brand of human is left?

Bits and pieces of trendy, of blank, pastel caps with a nondescript word, of loose shirts that assign a character trait, of gaudy, expensive pinky rings, don’t define me. I, am Winnie the Pooh. Walking around with a jar, looking for honey to fill to the brim. Just like my favorite yellow bear, I surround myself with a wide range of characters types. Friends who have witty, clever minds, but fail to make small talk at a party. Friends who own the eye of the beholder, but never have a genuine comment; and that’s not to say they are stupid, but that they live in a reality they have created, constantly speaking in projections. The finest of the bunch are those who flip the friendship lightswitch on and off so easily...it makes one wonder how good the good times were. The line between friend and foe wags happily in the distance, and I squint from afar, attempting to catch a glimpse of this junior casualty when it’s no longer in motion.

As a child, I never understood the mechanics of a dissolving relationship where sweet memories faded into the distance, and disdain rose in replacement. I recently got into an argument with a friend I’ve had since freshman year. Let’s call her Friend X. Our friendship lived on the rocks like a turbulent stretch of sea, but I was proud that we had come so far. We hung out practically every day, never chatting about stereotypical high school bullshit: like how “cool” our other friends were, and who we all (a bitch word for collectively) decided not to talk to (even bully, (I feel like this is the moment where I swipe on cherry lipstick in a mirror, then look over my shoulder at Hubert, my 1930s therapist, who is secretly planning to commit me, and state: I was reckless in my younger days)). This friendship, for all intensive purposes, was real. And no matter how large the toll our arguments took on me, I remained steadfast with an amendment to apologize for little spats when the catalyst of our fight was insignificant. However, on an ubiquitously boring Tuesday, a day that began with my roommate and I rolling in barrels of laughter on our organically mopped floor (organic in the sense that it was mopped by a human, not robot swiffer, and the cleaning solution itself is made from things of the earth), Friend X reprimanded us for mocking someone who has never been the butt of a joke. Abandoning my old fashion rules, I refused to acquiesce. Friend X needed to take her business elsewhere, lest she be content with my vexation. What I didn’t see coming, was just how comfortable she was. The issue in friendships with layfolk who care significantly less about you (than you do them), is that they will repeatedly proclaim unrequited love, down to loyally texting and calling right when your iPhone is looking fairly dry. But, truth lies in action. And as I continued with my day, enraged by Friend X’s remark, I slid our relationship between transparent slides, belted it under a microscope, and scribbled down my findings. Had I made mistakes? Certainly. Had she? Naturally. It dawned on me. In every argument, I was first to apologize.

Another cherished friend of mine, Friend O, has performed the exact opposite. Normally when inebriated and in public, we are inseparable, and our relationship spans for miles in the eyes of adorers. It’s magical, right? To be so connected to someone, and have everyone notice the connection like fast, free wifi in a crowded coffee shop. As if the verification of everyone else makes the relationship deeper, so it only needs to be recognized and not lived in. Secretly, behind our well lit candelabra, is the kind of bond where we only really talk when we need something from each other. It seems now that we never see each other at all, when I want the exact opposite. With all of these thoughts of connecting at the hip, burgeoning my mind like the sound of a hypnotist’s swinging pendulum, I don’t voice my opinion. Why haven’t I told her that I just miss her and want to grab food sometime? Though the circumstances are different, I still feel like Bob the Builder, asking myself; can I fix it?