Oh the places you’ll go.

Once in a while I write something overly personal on here.  This is one of those times.  So, you know, if you’re averse to that sort of thing, turn away.

Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird is purportedly a writing instruction book but it’s really a memoir about how she writes.  And she writes sort of trite but sort of seminally inspiring, lucid sentences that feel extremely cathartic if you have ever considered yourself a writer and been unable to write.  In one passage she says:

“The first useful concept is the idea of short assignments.  Often when you sit down to write, what you have in mind is an autobiographical novel about your childhood, or a play about the immigrant experience, or a history of – oh, say – say women.  But this is like trying to scale a glacier.  It’s hard to get your footing, and your fingertips get all red and frozen and torn up.  Then your mental illnesses arrive at the desk like your sickest, most secretive relatives.  And they pull up chairs in a semicircle around the computer, and they try to be quiet but you know they are there with their weird coppery breath, leering at you behind your back.”

So today’s short assignment is to write something pithy and trite, or maybe seminally inspiring, or maybe about anything, anything except the fact that Meghan defriended me on facebook and I don’t really have any clue as to why.  Oops.

It’s not that I want to be with her, per se.  I like a lot about Meghan but things have been strained lately, and as much as I like to complain about the ways she has departed from the saccharine vision we had approximately 9 months ago, I, too have my own thing going on.  Oh, and by the way, facebook is retarded.  So why should I care.

Well I guess because I feel like the act of defriending someone (not necessarily on facebook, just in life) carries forth the assumption that you did something correctly and they did something incorrectly which means you are right and they are wrong which means that you can feel good about yourself because you were the mature one.  And I don’t think that is necessarily true.  Not in situations where girls don’t like me any more.  I like those situations to be someone else’s fault.

I wrote a blog entry a couple of weeks ago after getting into an argument with Meghan after telling her that I was dating someone, because she was being awfully self-righteous and I wasn’t able to say what I wanted to say, about how she seeks out relationships with people who don’t challenge her and then are awful to her because she likes knowing that she’s right in every argument.  I wrote some other things too that were meaner than that, but I didn’t post it because I knew I would have just been posting it to get a reaction, and also because what the fuck does that say about me.

But now, motivated to publish a moody, self-righteous opinion piece of my own (cue Aretha Franklin) I look back and see that the true problem was that I was too scared to say what I wanted to say when I was with Meghan because I was scared that she would leave me.  Well, she did.  Literally and figuratively.  Funny, huh.

When I was in Korea, I wrote the following after a particular melodramatic night:  “I don’t want to be right.  I want to be so wrong that this is over.”

I think we have to feel self-righteous when we’re finally convinced that something is over.  It doesn’t matter whether we’re right or not, we need to feel that way because if we didn’t we’d fall back into the familiar vein of self-loathing and longing and allowing the previous infatuation to abuse us until we’re so broken down we don’t remember we’re being abused.

And then at the bottom of the page, in response to something else, I wrote, “She doesn’t remember either.”


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