I recently got an email critique from a family member, and despite my arrogant assumption that I am smarter than most, I really respect her opinion.
She mentioned that, while she loves the blog, it sometimes pisses her off that I bag on people so much.
My first reaction was bristling and denial.
How dare she? I am an artist, dammit! Hemmingway was never subject to this kind of shit! Why should I have to put up with it?
I have done denial before, I am good at this.
And then, once I thought about it, it led to more thought.
Now we’re in trouble.
I decided to look back over the last month of blogs, looking for instances that I might have unfairly bagged on someone who did not deserve.
Didn’t take long. Page two, the shit storm began.
Ok, so she’s right. (I don’t know why I think everyone else is always wrong. Call it a personality quirk.)
But this also led me to reviewing the way I view those around me.
The first thought is “Playthings for my amusement” and it doesn’t bode well.
Here is a good example:
I was in Starbucks one morning, cream and sugaring my coffee, when the guy next to me began cleaning off the cream and sugar kiosk.
And he didn’t work there.
As I watched, he cleaned up the area in front of himself, the space between us, and then I had to pick up my coffee as he started cleaning my area.
Once he finished with my section, he started to clean up the upper level with the creamers.
This is when the evil side of me began to rear its ugly head.
I decided to test his commitment to obsessive cleaning.
Call it blasphamy, but I knocked over my coffee.
Beautiful golden liquid spread out over the lower level of the kiosk and began to drip down the side, onto the floor.
And Obsession boy almost lost it.
First, the muttering under his breath began. It was low, indiscernible and a little creepy.
His hand was a blur, pulling napkins out for sopping up and cleaning.
This is just sick.
I almost feel bad for taking delight in his cleaning issue.
But this is the kind of guy that buys his cleaning supplies by the case, from industry warehouses, and his hands always smell faintly of ammonia.
I appears to help, by trying to throw my cup away and spilling what little was left on the newly cleaned section.
The muttering got worse.
For a moment, I thought of keeping this up, but cruelty is hard to sustain without feeling like an absolute shit.
Best to let it go.
So I went to the cashier to get another coffee.
And the cashier stared at me for a short moment and I realized that he knew exactly what I had been up to.
“That’s just wrong, dude.”
He’s right, you got me.
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