I had a buddy hit me up on chat today and ask:
“How do/did you figure out what to do with your life? (you’re kind of a mountaintop guru in my head, except wearing a t-shirt and shorts.)”
How does anyone not reply with such nice flattery.
He reminds me of me.
He’s more trusting than the girls he dates. He’s more forgiving than those he surrounds himself with. He, like me, knows that forgiveness is pretty easy to do and he, like me, doesn’t always get why those he surrounds himself with in this stage of his life can’t do the same.
Wouldn’t life be so much simpler?
I told him it started when I met a girl, once upon a
long time ago
The kind of girl that makes you want to write books of blues, before life imitated art.
And I met a selfish little man who didn’t put those in his care ahead of himself
Eventually, I learned to never be like that man, and I admit I’m not done with him. I learned those lessons in the wrong order so I never got that girl, but later on it helped me know what to do when the girl walked into the bar.
He, like I used to do, went on to defend those girls and known associates
I quickly told him that they’re acting like assholes and that it doesn’t matter how good of a person they might be, they’re not ready for what he’s wanting. In the end, the only way to get any sense of reciprocity and balance is to cut them cold and let them go.
Because they already did it.
If they don’t have the wherewithal to deal with beginning communication, they’re not going to be worth a damn when communication becomes vital.
Let the runners run. It’s what they want to do. With a little luck, it’s right girl, wrong time and he can be better prepared to know what to do when the girl walked into the bar.
He said it still hurts
I told him it always will. That will never change. Eventually, enough wonderful things fills your life that you learn how to make the pain into an asset.
Speaking of heartaches…
Whichever sappy poet first claimed that “heartbreak is a wound” is an asshole. A wound implies that probability for healing. All these impressionable youngsters believe the bubble gum bullish*t and pour their painful feelings into every journal and moleskin they can find, believing it is part of the healing process. These poor kids fill the fluffy perfumed pages with terrible Shakespearian-esque weepy-eyed teenage Hollywood dramas where their longing turns to reunions and ride-offs into sunsets.
End Scene.Then when it doesn’t happen – and the house rules in these situations are typically set to where they don’t – their pain is magnified exponentially. Jump ahead two scenes to where these poor kids are numbing themselves on prescription sedatives that their shrinks are investors in, thinking that if they wait it out, their wounds will heal.
That settles it: that first asshole poet that started this downward spiral was actually a pharmaceutical product marketer. F*** us all.
Man, RJ Reynolds and the Marlboro Man must be kicking each other between sulfuric wheezes, asking why in their eternal-home they never thought of that .
I’m hoping it helped
I hadn’t heard back in awhile. It took me too many years to learn the lesson: it’s not how good one can diagnose the situation. The only thing that matters is the results needed from them.
It’s the only way we’re getting anywhere in life, even when it feels like it is moving at a snail’s pace. Keeping such assholes around impedes whatever progress you’re making.
And when true beauty comes along, you’re in a better position to properly deal with it without yourself acting like an asshole.