You did hear
That I have all the pretentiousness and detestableness of a yuppie without any of the professional success and won't help others because I'm weak and selfish, decadent, and don't care. That I'm infatuated with myself and harmful to society and support human rights with my words but not my actions, and a dirty filthy drunk besides. That I am astonishingly negative, which to no surprise matches the results of my life, and that people don't like me.
There. There's it. There it is -- what I fear you will say about me.
Or do I really fear hearing this:
That I combine a wussy lack of masculinity with a lack of any positive feminine attributes, and that am short and fat and balding and no woman will ever find me attractive no matter how many pathetically funny things I say because I have no sex appeal, no confidence, no swagger, and no means to get it. That I may as well decorate my penis with Christmas ornaments because it has no functional use beyond the wanton self-pleasure that I should expect to continue indefinitely.
Or fear hearing this:
That I am of average intelligence, maybe in the 52nd percentile, and that, for instance, my good grades throughout high school show my natural inability to think for myself. That there is a new intellectual scale that measures based on independence of thought rather than mindless acceptance and obsequiousness, and that these new intellectuals are currently making jokes about me that I can't understand, and that I should probably go weep in a corner out of humiliation. That I, monkey, ever thought I was intelligent!
Or fear this:
That I'm the second man ever to become pregnant, according to a reputable doctor. But I'm pregnant with bees, possibly wasps.
There. There's it. There it is -- what I fear you will say about me.
Or do I really fear hearing this:
That I combine a wussy lack of masculinity with a lack of any positive feminine attributes, and that am short and fat and balding and no woman will ever find me attractive no matter how many pathetically funny things I say because I have no sex appeal, no confidence, no swagger, and no means to get it. That I may as well decorate my penis with Christmas ornaments because it has no functional use beyond the wanton self-pleasure that I should expect to continue indefinitely.
Or fear hearing this:
That I am of average intelligence, maybe in the 52nd percentile, and that, for instance, my good grades throughout high school show my natural inability to think for myself. That there is a new intellectual scale that measures based on independence of thought rather than mindless acceptance and obsequiousness, and that these new intellectuals are currently making jokes about me that I can't understand, and that I should probably go weep in a corner out of humiliation. That I, monkey, ever thought I was intelligent!
Or fear this:
That I'm the second man ever to become pregnant, according to a reputable doctor. But I'm pregnant with bees, possibly wasps.
posted by JMH | 8:00 PM
4 Comments:
I thought you were talking about me there at first. But I'm not short. And, uh, no bee pregnancy.
Good luck with that. Upside? Honey comes out of your nipples.
Oh dear. Well, if virtual sex appeal is any consolation, I find your skill with words and self-expression most attractive.
I think this may be one of my favorite posts to have randomly come across on your blog. I was first introduced to your writing in 2007. Good lord. Five years ago. And it hasn't ceased to amaze my wonder when reading it.
All this self loathing. Please take no offense when I say I find it soothing. Ya know. The whole misery loves company. The things you say of yourself are not at all what I think of you. The same would be true if I were to spout my inner dialogue as such; I highly doubt you would think those(my) thoughts about me.
What has shifted, if at all, in the past four years since this? Does angst evolve linearly?
You are a wonderful man. I mean that wholeheartedly.
patguy - either honey or royal jelly. I'll take either.
Nazu - hey, thanks.
freud - Yah, I really turned the knife inward there. And it was sharp.
Four years later, all this is probably still in me there somewhere, but I just got to the point where I found it more painful than unique. I got tired of self-dissection at some point. And with that, there's a real fear that I've lost that edge, that gift, that intense pain that may make this writing good.
Ah, that's nonsense. There's always pain to spare, no matter how many cardigan sweaters one buys.
But thanks for your comment. I'm glad that you think this about me. And understand.
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