I was talking with some friends the other day, about the process we sometimes go through, right? Of being your own true honest self.
Because somehow, in the quiet process of being myself, I had been inadvertently provoking the reveal of many on the sidelines, who had been watching and listening and feeding. I had no idea.
One of my friends, upon learning this strange perverted news, laughed, said
‘Oh glory, they’re just perched there, reading/feeding on your goodness, all these years?!’
And I laughed too, shoved them shoulder to shoulder, til I realized they were right.
‘Geeze’, I groaned , rubbing my eyes. ‘Yuck. Gross.’ How empty and despicable.
‘Ha!’ She said to me, watching me sigh.
‘So when there’s drooling watchers, making believe they could be you, you just living and writing your direct self is going to puff them all up, little defensive linebackers. They’re going to pop out, pissed off and guilty and justifying . Pretty funny, girl.’
‘Pfft.’ I muttered. Disgusted. ‘How this crap just goes on!’
She was sitting next to me, laughing.
‘Oh, those poor bags of sleeze. Yup.
And you, my dear, just being you.’
‘Oh goodness’, I thought to myself. ‘I’m not any kind of hunter. ‘
All this inadvertent flushing out of bimbocrap , from shadows I didn’t even know existed.
‘Oh my.’ quoth the reluctant warrior.
This flushing of germs, weasels.
Stirring the pot of wannabes.
What wretched company to find oneself next to.
But then she just took my arm, and squeezed her friendship into me,
and everything once again was good.
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