Breaking Free from the Lies We Tell Ourselves: A Reflection on What’s True #bloganuary

When I first met a girl, by most standards, she used the word “passive-aggressive” sometimes, which was very frustrating.

Every time she said it, and it wasn’t all the time, I felt like she was coming out swinging at me and calling me a wimp.

I related this, I suppose, to being Marty McFly in the Back to the Future movies. I felt like I had to make all kinds of things happen if I eventually wanted the year 2015 to be all right.

I was troubled by it for a long time. Some years later, maybe three years later, I kind of resolved the uneasiness it caused in my heart. It took me a long time to find a book about passive-aggressive anger that explained its meaning in substantial detail, which at least gave me time to reflect on the accusation.

The lie there was that the kind of underlying anger would sort of anger karma into destroying my opportunities in life. I experimented with it to find out. In an attempt to create some mirth in what can be described as a sluggish job, I made small talk at work to appear passive-aggressive.

I suppose I seemed like a loser, really. The experience of viewing life experiences through the eyes of someone who is passive-aggressive was pretty fun, though.

And I’m not sure it made a difference at all.

There is plenty to be said in favor of observing custom. To somebody that wants a class clown at age thirty or however old, it merely steered my progress in life into coming in contact with people who related to grime. While being responsive to feedback about how I acted, I found a lot of satisfaction in bringing up learning experiences I’d had that had been pretty terrible.

I didn’t have much of a problem doing this. I didn’t feel there was anything wrong with me being socially inept. This is considered a matter of opinion.

As the singer put it, I never thought I was on TV.

Do you know why Existentialism is so popular today?

What is one thing you would change about yourself?

I can remember being at the very start of adulthood, standing in a fine light rain under electric lights in the night trying a cigarette. I didn’t start getting them in quantity until I was around thirty years old, and I had the confidence to speak to the only one of my grandmas who was still living the truth that I wanted to smoke butts and I felt blameless.

The unpleasant feeling I get every day that I am rarely sure how to quell, if I have momentarily lost my power of self-discipline I will smoke a butt, certainly. I kind of posture that I write (and I feel I should note what would appeal to somebody else), but I feel cursed that if I live to a natural old age I will have led a path of sadness and the potential for parchment to convey something sad. I got this idea from some complete stranger on the Internet joking that he would not trade to chance to be in with his family for all the books in the world he might like to write.

Writers can be assholes, it goes without saying.

I believe I am damaged and that I smoke cigarettes for a bit of cool, a bit of a harder nose than I might otherwise sport. Compared to all other wonders in this lifetime I am most concerned with how I might relate to a woman, and the potential for a shared pastime like smoking butts continues to seem like a reasonable opportunity cost. I think every person should choose for himself whether to smoke the little daggers.

It is without a doubt a terrible way to treat yourself, smoking butts, but that is nothing to the kisses you might be felled by if you were to prove yourself unassailable by tobacco but then destroyed by anything else unfairly, anything (like the rock music theme of hippie powers, that unusual concept album). I’m not sure a writer should try to bring down enthusiasm for the best delights you could encounter in your life if you have a little luck.

I am easily willing to respond to a writing prompt.