Uggh. Am I really writing about myself again? Really? After yesterday, you’d think I would have enough of myself for sixteen lifetimes, if not longer. But while all of you can put me aside and forget about me for a few days, get on with your lives, I’m stuck here, in this lazy, fat, ugly body, stewing in myself and all of my bullshit, with no escape. Consider yourselves lucky.
And after yesterday, as much as I intellectually believe in all of the things that I said, that comedy should be allowed even within the confines of an ostensibly tight-knit community of personal bloggers, that respectful criticism should also be welcomed into that community and viewed as a means of strengthening it, rather than weakening it, the part of me that — yes — is emotional and — yes — does feel pain is so sick of myself and all of the stuff that seems to always result from me being that self the only way I know how, that this morning that I really wish I could escape it, too.
With me, what you see is pretty much what you get. You don’t have to do a lot of digging into the bowels of the interwebs to figure out what I really think about something, or see where my loyalty lies. I am pretty easy to read. I don’t know how to be any other way. I have flaws, and I know what all of them are. I have filed away every criticism I’ve ever received of myself in a special drawer in my ego, carefully memorialized on neat metaphorical index cards for consultation later. If there is something negative you want to say to me about myself, please rest assured that I’ve already thought of it at least fifteen times, dissected it from every angle, and tried to figure out what I can do to make it better. If it’s not better now, it’s probably because I just cannot make it be.
This is who I am. I cannot be nice at all costs. I’m not playing a game, I don’t have a secret agenda. This is it. It’s not really very complicated.
And when I love something, I love it with all of my heart. I tell everyone about it. I wear it proudly on my sleeve. There is nothing like it, and I would never hide it, from anyone. Loving things is about being proud. You can only love things of which you are proud.
When I don’t like something, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to make it more like one of those things I love. I want to be able to love everything that way, and I get frustrated when I cannot. I get frustrated when I see people not speaking up about things that could so clearly be better, or being unwilling to have the courage to just say, “Hey, what the hell is going on here?” I get disheartened when people are so easily lured into believing the simple explanation for things, and believe that it is as simple and banal as wanting to tear somebody down for having achieved greatness.
I’ve said this all before, and it’s beyond tiresome.
If you hate it, or me, I cannot really blame you. You’re not alone. From now on, I would prefer that you at least be straight with me.
And now, I’m going to endeavor to stop bringing this stuff up.