For You.

 

“They’re going to hate me.”

 

I laughed at you for that. “Pffft, no, they won’t.”

 

“Oh yes, they will.”

 

Because that’s how it works to you, how it’s always worked — friends of your exes hate you; it’s just how it goes.

 

It’s a good thing we’re not exes, then.

 

Even though “I feel like I should add you to my list of exes,” I said, watching while you self-consciously sorted and folded your laundry, hanging up one shirt at a time in that closet by your bathroom. “Because this feels like a breakup even though we never dated.”

 

“I don’t wanna add you to my list of exes.” You shook out another t-shirt. “That’s basically a list of people who really really hate my guts.”

 

“Fine.” I grinned. “You can put me on a different list.”

 

“You just…kind of exist in your own…separate, special space.” You looked down at the t-shirt you were folding, then turned and tucked it away on a shelf.

 

Yeah. That’s me. And now you too.

 

A friend of mine suggested that the word for it is “fling,” but that doesn’t do it justice in the slightest, doesn’t encompass everything we were, everything we became, everything we can’t be anymore. “Well, then you come up with a better word,” my friend joked.

 

“I don’t need a word. I know what it was. I don’t need a nice neat label for it.”

 

“What was it?”

 

“It was a friendship that we had to end because we both wanted more from it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

There’s no word for it. It’s a lacuna. (I know you know what that means. If you don’t remember, just ask Hank Green to remind you.)

 

A different friend tried to solve the dilemma mathematically —

 

“Say it’s an omega function, where N is your desire to not have kids, and L is the amount you like someone, so if L is less than N—”

 

But it doesn’t work like that. The amount that I like you is not quantifiable. And my desire not to have kids isn’t quantifiable either. They’re both infinities.

 

“Well, if they’re both infinities, then the omega function is useless and I pulled it out for nothing. And the omega function does not like that.”

 

Oh boo hoo, the omega function will have to get over itself.

 

I bet that’s a sentence you’ve never seen in a love letter before.

 

I keep trying to think of a song that captures all of it, but nothing fits anymore. Not even the one I sang you a couple weeks ago. There are lines here and there from lyrics ranging from youtube originals (“We just don’t fit each other’s frequencies”) to country ballads (“I don’t love you any less/But I can’t love you anymore”) to out-of-context Adam Lambert (“Do you know what you got into/Can you handle what I’m about to do/Cuz it’s about to get rough with you”), but none of them are really about everything.

 

Makes me wonder if should write one myself. But I don’t want to write a song about this. I just want to write this.

 

I don’t know if you’re okay with this being posted, honestly. But I need to do this. I need to reduce you to something quantifiable, to just one more Facebook note, one more post. A mental exercise of pulling together various puzzle pieces of two years and transmuting them into art. I can’t just let you exist as this amorphous unquantifiable infinity. You blot things out with music and I blot things out with words. I need you to just be words on a screen. So I hope you can forgive me.

 

I want to write about the things I want to remember. Even I know I need to forget them.

 

I want to remember everything we were before we caught fire and burned out. I need to remember that we were so much more than just how we ended.

 

I want to remember the first time we met, when you were handing out those random surveys for some random class and apologizing right and left for doing it.

 

I want to remember the first time we really hung out, two years ago, seeing the zom-rom-com “Warm Bodies” with our friends, and sitting next to you and knowing you liked me in your quiet, repressed way.

 

I want to remember how you first put my number into your phone as “Essem” because you were a tiny bit tipsy and thought that was funny. (It’s okay; I was sober and I thought so too.)

 

I want to remember immediately establishing that we could not date because of our incompatible goals regarding children, and I want to remember you finally telling me so recently how much you appreciated me being so upfront about it. (“I love how straightforward you are. It’s such a breath of fresh air.”)

 

I want to remember how we fell out of touch, fell back in touch, and stayed in touch, with all those facebook messaging conversations when you were going through your various and sundry crises. Like cologne. Remember cologne and how much you were freaking out about which one to get to impress some girl you barely knew? (And then she dumped you anyway. Classic you. Sorry.)

 

I want to remember how for the longest time I thought you thought I was a narcissist and didn’t like that about me. Turns out you kinda do now. Turns out you kinda think it’s adorable. You kinda think I’m adorable.

 

I want to remember how I came to feel that you were too young for me, too green and lacking experience, that you couldn’t really be the kind of emotional support I needed, so I didn’t think of you “that way.”

 

I want to remember how much of your history, your baggage, and your pain you entrusted me with, and how you said you’ve never regretted it.

 

I want to remember how protective I felt of you, trying to caution you against getting too attached to your newest crushes too fast, because of how badly that always works out for you. Not that our slow burn wound up being that much better.

 

I want to remember all the times I knew all I had to do if I wanted a meal for Shabbos was ask you where you were going, because you were always happy to bring me along or direct me to other viable possibilities. I met so many people because of you; I’m not even sure I can count them all.

 

I want to remember introducing you to my friends, who were always so impressed at my ability to summon a dude to balance the gender ratio at a meal.

 

I want to remember how you were sweet even when you were drunk, like that time when I told you I thought the guy I liked was interested in a friend of mine and not in me, and you were all, “man, that sucks. But hey, you don’t know for sure, maybe he does like you.” (You were right. He did like me.)

 

I want to remember helping you move, how I volunteered to stay by the truck and flirt with anyone to distract them from stealing your stuff, because why yes, I am a narcissist. And I want to remember how you let me be the one to put your bedframe back together after the move because you know how much I love using tools.

 

I want to remember the night when you messaged me when you were coming apart at the seams, and I knew better than to let you go through it alone. I want to remember how when I showed up, you’d wrapped yourself in a blanket on the edge of your bed, fidgeting and twitching, and I remember how I couldn’t find my usual even, logical tone and that everything that left my mouth was vitriolic and furious because I was so pissed at whoever had hurt you like this.

 

I want to remember that time I met a great girl and thought she’d be perfect for you, but then I discovered that she was, alas, already married. Sigh. I don’t think I even mentioned that one to you, but you knew I kept an eye out for you, and you’d thanked me for doing that.

 

I want to remember introducing you to the Vlogbrothers youtube channel, and how you liked Hank more than John, because…well, of course you do.

 

I want to remember all the times we spent marathoning TV shows together, and how comfortable I felt with you, and I didn’t doubt that we’d be friends for long enough to watch the million bazillion things on our lists. I hope you still get to watch them all someday, even though I don’t remember what they all are.

 

I want to remember how you never made me feel like I had to impress you, how 90% of the time we’ve spent together, I’ve worn no makeup and been in sweatshirts and baggy t-shirts and my shapeless automotive school uniform shirt, and you still think I’m pretty.

 

I want to remember the first time after we finished an episode that you actually paused and asked, “So, how are things?” I think it was the first personal conversation we ever had that wasn’t about a crisis, just about you and me and our boring lives.

 

I want to remember how appalled I was when I found out people had stopped setting you up because they thought you and I were dating. I was so horrified at the thought that I might have gotten in the way of you finding your soulmate.

 

I want to remember the first time I let you see me bleed, the first time I truly relinquished my role as the supporter and became the supportee, how you stayed up an hour past midnight texting me even though you were exhausted and had work the next day, trying to help me stop crying.

 

I want to remember how I knew I had to tell you that my feelings for you were changing. I remember how tense I was, but how I knew that if I just talked to you, we would work together to figure out a next step. I knew you wouldn’t just bail.

 

I want to remember how when I started my rambling explanation of how my feelings sometimes do wonky things without my consent, you blurted out, “You still like me, right?” Oh you. Never for a second thinking that the problem was that I liked you too much.

 

I want to remember how when I decided I needed space from you, you gave it without question, and I want to remember how when we got back in touch, you were like, “Gosh, it’s been so long. How long has it been?” It had been ten days. Only ten days.

 

I want to remember how glad I was when we were able to talk about your dating life again without it being painful to me. How I gave you advice and how annoyed I got at all these girls who wouldn’t give you the time of day.

 

I want to remember how I finally broke it open, how after watching an episode where a character gives a big epic speech about choices and regrets, I turned to you and confessed that I wonder if I’ll wind up with regrets about us, and you said you do too, and that really opened the door to us thinking about and admitting how much we want to be with each other.

 

I want to remember how you said you felt so lucky, “because so many guys go after you, and you don’t want them back. I don’t know if I deserve it, but I’ll take it.”

 

I want to remember that time you told me not to come over, because you worried that being around me would just make you feel frustrated about all the things you couldn’t have.

 

I want to remember the last time I came to see you, how part of me knew it was the last time. I kept my eyes glued to the wheels of your swivel chair while I struggled for words, before finally picking up my head, looking you straight in the eye, and just telling you for the first time, “I love you.”

 

I want to remember how I didn’t wash my hair because I thought that being all oily and gross would make it easier for you not to feel tempted to touch me. And you rolled your eyes at how ridiculous I was to think that there is anything I could possibly do that would make you not want to touch me.

 

I want to remember how you had that zit on your face, and I pointed it out because I do that, I point out the elephants in the room to get them out of the way. “Don’t worry, I like you even if you have a zit.” You laughed because it was such an understatement. And then I tried to reassure you by telling you what terrible skin I have, and you looked at my bare hands and forearms in utter confusion, so I specified, “My face, I have terrible skin on my face.” “Oh, sure, your face is terrible. I am so not attracted to your face.” And I laughed because it was such a lie.

 

I want to remember how while those last hours together ticked by, you asked me quietly, “Is it okay that I keep looking at you? I like looking at you.” Of course. Of course it’s okay. And I told you about the first time I thought I noticed you repeatedly looking at me, and how I told myself it was in my head, that I was only seeing what I wanted to see. “I don’t think it was in your head,” you said. “Yeah, I don’t think so either,” I said.

 

I want to remember how when it was all over, you walked me home for the last time, at 3 AM in the rain. And somehow we were just quoting Galaxy Quest back and forth. And laughing.

 

I want to remember us like that.

 

I want to remember

 

I want to remember

 

I want

 

I need to remember all of it. Because the end came so fast that it’s a blur, and it’s so easy to feel like that torrent of feelings that tore us apart wasn’t real. And I can’t let myself believe that I broke us over something that wasn’t even real.

 

You asked me at one point why we keep doing these things to ourselves, getting ourselves into these situations where we just get hurt.

 

I murmured in your ear, “I’m just too much of a masochist. It’s in my name.”

 

It took a second for that joke to land, but when it did, you laughed like I knew you would, a more genuine laugh than I’d heard from you in days. A laugh that trickled out into an “…Oh god.”

 

Oh god, you were gonna miss me.

 

Oh god, I’m gonna miss you.

 

Oh god, I’m so sorry.

 

*

 

“They’re going to hate me.”

 

No, they won’t.

 

I’ll write you into my history, and they’ll see how much you meant to me, and they’ll never hate you.

 

Thank you.

 

blue heart eye crying

 

______________

Like my thinky thoughts? You can commission more of them via my GoFundMe campaign — http://www.gofundme.com/sm-automotive — or subscribe on the sidebar, and thanks for reading! You can also buy me tools from this Wishlist but really I just like money.

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My Year-In-Review, via Facebook Statii

It is way too much work to think back over this whole year and construct some kind of coherent narrative and write it all out for a serious, heavy-duty year-in-review. So instead I’m just gonna take the first and last Facebook status of every month of 2014 and post them in one spot, with minimal commentary in fancy schmancy italics. I’m excluding links and pictures and famous quotes and whatnot that aren’t just pure nuggets of wisdom straight from me. Enjoy?


 

January 1st

So, Wolf of Wall Street? Basically makes me want to go and hug everybody I know and be like, “OH MY GOD I AM SO GLAD YOU ARE NOT JORDAN BELFORT.” Oh, and DiCaprio better win the Oscar.

lolololol oscar hahahaha
*

January 30th

If I were to have a “What I Be” portrait done, I think I’d have “vampire” “acne” “makeup” and “smile lines” (with arrows) written on my face, with the caption: “I am not my skin.” And no, I’m not posting this for attention or validation. I’m posting this solely to annoy Rafi Skier.

Because *reasons.* Also, ha, remember that photography project? That happened.


 

February 2nd 

BAD. IT. IS. SO. BAD. ‪#‎SuperBowl‬

Nuff said.
*

February 27th

Please keep my friend and radio mentor Philip Rosenberg in your prayers, because he suffered a medical emergency today and is a devout atheist, so being prayed for would probably piss him off enough to get better so that he could yell at me.

Phil is doing just fine, yay! Proof there is a god! Suck it, Phil! (Also no we are not related. Thanks for asking.)


 

March 3rd

Another year, another zero Oscars for Leonardo DiCaprio. Dude is probably going to get a lifetime achievement award before anyone will give him an Oscar.

Whaddaya know.
*
March 31st

Why SM will never be a relationship counselor, episode 4567:

Friend: “Stop getting all the men to fall in love with you! Sheesh”
Me: “I’m a heartbreaker. It’s what I do.”
Him: “Yea, I know.”
Me: “you are lucky enough to be immune to whatever it is about me that hooks these poor suckers”
Him: “I thank Jesus for it every day.
My immunity means that I’ve messaged approximately 5 profiles on two websites in the last year, because the rest are boring.”
Me: “move to mongolia or something. People seem more alluring if you can’t understand what they’re saying.”

See, what did I tell you? Nuggets of wisdom. EVERYWHERE.


 

April 1st

Note to self: the axiom “Don’t believe everything you read on the internet” was invented for days like today. (Except for the outrage over the How I Met Your Mother finale. I think it’s safe to believe that.)

APRIL FOOLS DAY AMIRITE?? Still have not watched the last couple seasons of HIMYM. But I know I would hate the finale if I ever did. Because ewwwww.
*
April 30th

Why SM Will Never Be a Supervillain, Episode 93:

Friend: “So-and-so thinks you hate her.”
Me: “What? Why would she think that?”
Him: “I have no idea. I went to great pains to explain to her that SM doesn’t muster the energy to hate anybody.”
Me: “Seriously. Way too much effort.”

This was later amended in the comments (after other motivations for being a supervillain were presented) to more specifically: “Why SM Will Never Be Slade Wilson, Aside From his Awesome Goatee and Accent, Obviously.”


 

May 1st
Kid I babysit for: “I want you to join Minecraft. Because I want you to come live in this world with me, because I don’t like being the only person in this world.”

Me: “But couldn’t anyone else keep you company too?”
Him: “But I want YOU to live in it.”
Me: “Why me?”
Him: “Because I know you well and I really really want you to live in this world with me.”

I feel like I was just proposed to by a nine-year-old.

Winning ’em over while they’re young, that’s me.
*
May 31st
Another Heights shabbos gone — big thanks to everyone who invited me for meals, hung out with me, said hi, and especially to Galit Wernick for hosting me, listening to me explain how engines work, asking me to read “Something Borrowed” out loud for a hour or two, and agreeing to watch “The Normal Heart” with me tonight. Shavua Tov!
Galiiiiiiiit ❤ ❤ ❤
The Normal Heart 😦 😦 😦

 

June 2nd

Things nobody tells you about the differences between automotive school and a liberal arts college: An abbreviated, commonly used form of the word “transmission” is “tranny.” I still get whiplash hearing people throw that word around in a completely inoffensive context.

Yup. Still. Every time.
*
June 30th
Out of context quote of the day: “Joanna, don’t miss the orgy. I can tell you where it is.” ~ Tamar Pacht
No, I will not tell you the context. YOU ARE CURSED TO WONDER.

 

July 2nd

omg I love ewoks they are best thing in all of cinematic history

Context and justification not required.
*
July 31st

Today in “Questions Never Asked of Male Automotive Students” —

Instructor (apropos of nothing): “Do you know how to make apple pie?”
Me: “No.”
Him: “Do you know how to make cheesecake?”
Me: “Nope.”
Him: “Oh. See, I want to find out how to make them so that I can tell my wife how to make them.”
Me: “Google. Google knows everything.”

Unpack the sexism, people. Unpack. Go.

Also happy birthday Harry Potter!

 

August 2nd
It occurred to me this week that I am starting to become afraid to be a Jew in much the same way I am afraid to be a woman. I, as a woman, know that obviously not all men are rapists or misogynists, but I also know (from experience and from studies and history and well-documented events) that far too many are, and therefore I am instinctively cautious and apprehensive of most men I don’t know. And similarly, I, as a Jew, know that obviously not all people are anti-Semites, but I also know (from current events and experience and studies and history) that far too many are, and therefore am starting to become instinctively cautious and apprehensive of most people I don’t know. ‪#‎persecutioncomplex‬
Oh god the Gaza war. Let’s not do that again. (Ha. As if.)
*
August 31st
Dear body, you can sleep late on Sundays. Really. It’s okay. Sincerely, I DIDN’T GET TO SLEEP UNTIL 2 AM LAST NIGHT WHY AM I AWAKE
THE STRUGGLE IS REAL.

 

September 1st

So Labor Day is about honoring the blue collar workers? Honor me, people. I expect groveling.

Ahem. Still waiting.

*

September 30th

It will never not be creepy when guys I’ve never had class with and never spoken to call out to me by name when I walk by them in shop or in the hallways. Never. Ugh, so creepy.

*curls into fetal ball*

 

October 2nd

Signs you’re an auto mechanic student: You cringe every time you see a Chrysler Town and Country because the hood is too short so half the engine compartment extends under the dash and is a nightmare to work on. *shudders*

THE HORROR.
*
October 30th

Baby brother: “You’re going to school today?”
Me: “Yup!”
Him: “You know, a wizard could probably fix cars REALLY EASILY.”

‪#‎facts‬

little brothers always ruining everything


 

November 2nd

boston y u have such bad weather also y r u in boston. ugh boston. no me gusta. Awesome people though. Jacquie Chana Yocheved Wolpoe better come back to NYC soon or — or…I’ll just have to visit again, I guess.

but for real Boston sucks so much

*
November 28th

These Black Friday taglines of “The more you spend, the more you save!” are shorting out my logic circuits. That is literally not true. Stop it, internet.

although thank goodness for Black Friday because who knows if I’d have a tool set without it

 

December 1st

Things that frustrate me: the fact that we have the technology to land a probe on a comet but not to pack chips into a bag in such a way that the settling won’t result in 2/3 of a bag of air. ‪#‎darncapitalists‬

And don’t tell me the bag is the technology keeping the chips from being crushed. If there was any financial incentive to fit more chips in a bag, they’d find a way.
*
December 31st
?????????????????????

______________

Like my thinky thoughts? You can commission more of them via my GoFundMe campaign — http://www.gofundme.com/sm-automotive — or subscribe on the sidebar, and thanks for reading! You can also buy me tools from this Wishlist but really I just like money.

On Second Impressions

 

I think it’s pretty much a given that recognizing and identifying a pattern of thought is the first step toward gaining control over it, taking away its power. Not the only step, of course, but the first one, and therefore indispensable.

A pattern that I’ve recently recognized in myself is my suddenly strangely pervasive anxiety in the face of second impressions. Or third ones. Or fourth or fifth or sixth. But mostly second.

And not first. I am weirdly zen about first impressions, for the most part. The very first time I meet someone, I have no reason to respect their opinion — I don’t know them, they could be a total jerk for all I know, and I’m not in the business of caring about impressing total jerks or worrying about what they think of me. And even if they’re not a jerk, they’re still a stranger in whom I have no investment or relationship. So I have no reason to be anxious or care about making a good first impression.

But second impressions — sometimes they seem to scare the living crap out of me. Whether it’s meeting someone for the second time ever, or meeting someone in person after having “met” them already online and made my first impression that way, second impressions sometimes seem to push me to the edge of my last nerve.

Because if you don’t like me when you first meet me, fine, whatever, you get filed away in the “people I don’t need to waste my time on” folder. But if you like me when you first meet me, and then you stop liking me when you get to know me a little better, if I don’t live up to the high standard that my first impression set — that would suck. It would mean that while what’s on my surface is all fine and dandy, what’s underneath is rotten. And it is so much worse to be rotten underneath than to have a less-than-pristine surface.

It’s a combination of classic Imposter Syndrome and this little other nerve-fraying cocktail I like to call my “Shiny Thing Complex.” I’ve talked about this Shiny Thing Complex with a bunch of people, but I’ve never written out anything comprehensive, and I really think I should for my own sake and peace of mind. So I’m gonna talk it out here; I don’t really know where this is going. Bear with me.

You see, I am well aware that I have many shiny, flashy qualities that have wide appeal and catch people’s attention — funny, pretty, smart, honest, curvy, sarcastic, confident, insightful, emotionally supportive, with eye-catching style and unconventional career choices — and these qualities have and continue to hook people on a fairly regular basis.

But because they are so flashy and so shiny and so very much about what I can do for you and not about what I am, I feel like they will catch your attention very intensely but very briefly, before you move on to the next shiny thing. When these qualities are new and novel to you, you will think they are the bees knees, but once you get used to them, you’ll take them for granted and start wondering what else I have to offer, and I’ll have nothing left to pull out of my hat because I am all shine. Even my substance: my mind, my observations, my unusual interests — it all becomes shine because it’s all part of what makes me “cool.”

And I have so many conflicting feelings about this.

Allow me to bring Exhibits A and B from the Hall of Ex-Boyfriend Quotations:

“You are one of the coolest people I know. And I really wanted to believe that I could attract someone like you and keep you interested.”

~ One ex, spoken at the time of the breakup, when I ended things

and

“At the end of the day, I knew we weren’t right for each other, and I know I shouldn’t have said yes when you asked me out. But I – I just really, really wanted to be able to say that ‘that amazing girl, that super smart, hot, funny girl with the amazing notes and the hilarious facebook comments — that girl is my girlfriend.’ ”

~ another ex, spoken at the time of the breakup, when we came to the mutual decision to end things

My ex-boyfriends are gracious as hell, and it’s not my intention to use these quotes to condemn them. I just want to illustrate a point, which is: I am a trophy. An atypical, multidimensional trophy, perhaps, but a trophy nonetheless. And being a trophy is SO complicated, it really is.

On the one hand, I deeply understand the need for one’s partner to be the kind of person that you respect and admire and are so proud of that you want to show them off to the world like that (in fact, if I don’t feel that way about a guy I’m with, that’s a major red flag), but on the other hand, it makes me feel super shiny and flimsy and objectified as a prop whose value is determined by what I can do for your image and your self-esteem, with no intrinsic worth of my own.

And on yet a third hand, in some ways I like being capable of being that kind of prop. I know that being a pretty, smart, charismatic woman carries a power — of being able to make guys look good or feel good just by dint of associating with them or being seen with them. And I love being able to use that power for good; I loved making my boyfriends feel like hot stuff just by being with them. And when I’m single and have close male friends who are crystal clear about my boundaries, I like to use it to help them too, e.g. by spending time with them when they’re feeling down or their confidence is shot, or maybe dressing up or doing my makeup when I hang with them, or just by being generous and open with my compliments. Because for lots of straight males, getting attention from an awesome, attractive girl is its own unique brand of confidence-boosting, even when there’s zero chance of romance. I’m not sure why this works, but it does. And I really like being able to boost the confidence of my straight male friends when they’re feeling crappy. I like using my powers for good.

But then I wonder if I’m just feeding the Shiny Thing Complex by embracing it, and that maybe I’d be better off if for a while I just decided to constantly dress poorly and stop making jokes and keep quiet or be rude and obnoxious, and thus reject everything about me that makes me shiny.

But I highly doubt that’s the answer, because, well, that basically translates to “reject a whole bunch of things that make up most of my entire personality.” So…that makes no sense.

I guess what it boils down to, like everything else, is that I need to learn to own my shininess. I need to accept that these qualities are a huge part of me, and that just because they make me attractive, doesn’t mean they’re shallow. And that just because there are a few people who’ve expressed intense interest in me and then quickly moved on, doesn’t mean that they thought I was all shine (and even if they did, that doesn’t mean they were right). I need to keep remembering that most of the best guys who’ve expressed interest in me and gotten over it when I couldn’t date them have subsequently become my friends, not because they’re still clinging to the hope that things can work out between us, but rather because they value me as a person and not just a shiny thing. And I need to remember that just because my exes start dating really soon after having had their hearts broken by me doesn’t mean that their feelings for me weren’t real and that they just latched onto the next shiny thing that came along, because that’s not how it works.

And I need to accept that just because I am shiny, doesn’t mean that’s all there is to me. So I don’t have to be scared those times that I worry that I’m not shiny enough, because that’s not all I have going for me. I don’t have to be the prettiest girl in the room. I don’t have to be scared that in 10 years I’ll have lost what makes me appealing just because I probably won’t look as good as I do now. I don’t have to get nervous when I meet friends of a friend for the first time; I don’t have to worry that now that they’ve seen me shoulder to shoulder with their other friends, they’ll realize I don’t measure up. Because I will.

And I don’t have to be scared of hanging out with someone a second time, or a third time, or a fourth. Because no matter how much time they spend with me, they’re not going to find anything that rotten underneath. No one ever has. No one’s ever hung out with me, say, 5 times and then suddenly on the 6th realized that I am a complete waste of oxygen. It’s not going to happen.

The worst of me just isn’t that bad.

______________

Like my thinky thoughts? You can commission more of them via my GoFundMe campaign — http://www.gofundme.com/sm-automotive — or subscribe on the sidebar, and thanks for reading! You can also buy me tools from this Wishlist but really I just like money.