A lousy conversationalist asked, “Which one of your dead dogs was your favorite?”
Well, she didn’t really phrase it that way, but that’s what she meant. Setting up the context would take too long and require recounting even more of an incredibly awkward conversation. This is a blog, and I have to keep things punchy.
This isn’t normal for me. Usually, I hedge. If I had stopped to think I might have refused to answer, or gone with Freya because she was still around, or gauged what the lousy conversationalist wanted to hear in order to avoid a debate.
So I almost followed up out loud with “Holy shit. Where did that come from?”
I’m still not sure. Is it age? Have I finally reached that point of old-guy-that-doesn’t-care?
Is it a side effect of reading a lot of philosophy lately?
Today I escaped anxiety. Or no, I discarded it, because it was within me, in my own perceptions — not outside.
Maybe it’s the result of all the writing I’ve been doing, which has had me in my head a hell of a lot. I think I have hit a few points were the internal monologues and the external dialogues have mixed. I need to avoid crossing the streams. That would be bad.
I’m often someone that can’t shut up but at the same time, I’m also one that will hide how I feel. I’ll overshare about work, money, politics, the last movie I saw, or what I think about the whole Jack Kirby/Stan Lee argument. But when it comes to important stuff, I tend to be pretty guarded.
I think it could be a Lutheran thing. I was raised by Lutherans, you know.
Is this a new leaf for me? Maybe. I kind of hope so.
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