Monday, November 25, 2002

Once every now and again my mother will astound me by saying something that’s so dead on right, and so bluntly phrased, that it takes me aback. I’m not sure if it’s that she’s so extremely perceptive, or if she’s just the only one with enough guts to deflate my ego by pointing out things I’ve obviously overlooked. But sometimes she’s dead on. And tonight, she cleared up something for me that I’ve been worrying about for some time.

For a long time, I’ve thought myself a good listener. I thought that maybe I was easy to open up to for one reason or another. And I felt burdened by the fact. I didn’t always like to talk because it felt like somehow I was cheating someone else out of their only outlet. I felt like I was special and somehow needed.

But I was wrong. I’m not an exceptionally good listener or particularly easy to be open with. “People just like to talk about themselves, that’s all.” Damnit, she’s right. People just use me sometimes. I don’t have to feel responsible for it. It’s not my burden, it’s theirs.

I don’t know why I find this so liberating. Perhaps it’s only because now I feel more free to talk about myself. Lily Tomlin once wrote something to the effect of: “Man invented language to satisfy his deep-seated need to complain.” It’s true. And I’m going to take advantage of the fact.

In other news, I’m in the process of redoing my regular website, you should all check it out and sign my guest book.