imagesIt’s always the same story. It would be nice to see a plot twist that makes the studio audience gasp in fearful delight once in a while, but nope. It’s the same drama
performed over and over with different accents and costume changes, like a Cher concert that just won’t end. There’s the verbal slap fight, the silence, the shiny layer of hate and isolation that eases around you like a greasy sausage casing. The ending is always unsatisfying, and it always tastes like fennel.

You carry the rage around in a fancy handbag like rich people tote tiny dogs, dazzling anyone in earshot with your poetic articulation of the human condition. People love to be simultaneously entertained and nauseated by your tales, the bile from your soul coughed up to make salacious gossip around the neighborhood. It’s like being the vampire’s victim in a popular tween book/movie franchise. You spend the first two installments pale and woozy from being a human appetizer and by the third you are shown only in flashbacks and for like two seconds under credits.

Of course your anger is justified. Mother Teresa herself would sanction strangulation with cinnamon dental floss.

“That other stuff was lies but now I’m telling the truth. How DARE you not trust me.”
“I can’t stand here and fight about how I purposely turn the argument to unimportant details because I have to paint the inside of the fireplace.”
“I don’t run away when you need me, I planned to go to the Arctic Circle at the last minute with no luggage.”

Energy that could have been spent learning to play the banjo has been sacrificed to tell and re-tell the latest disappointment, the newest cruelty. You’ve become a human thesaurus with a thousand ways to say “my unhappiness is making me glow in the dark like plutonium” with ironic joie de vivre. But now that you are the Stanley Kubrick of pain, what do you do with it? Ask Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman to make a thirty hour movie with naked people wearing masks? Because Kubrick did it already, and it was weird.

The universe has duly noted that you have suffered. A credit has been applied to your account with Jesus or Santa or whoever you think is paying attention to such matters. You are free to decide if you want to continue being a victim in a story or a superhero/butt-kicker in your life. Either way, we’re all totally talking about you.

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