An imaginary chat about being an advice columnist

I love talking to you. It’s just like having a journal.

Except I talk back.

Yes you do.

Am I nice?

Not always.

I try to be.

Intentions don’t count.

That is what I would say if I was giving advice.

I don’t think so.

Well. Hmm. Don’t assume that the intent is bad. I would definitely say that.

You’ve said that to me.

I’ve said it to myself.

Did you listen?

Yes. And it not only bit me in the ass, but then it gave me a bloody nose and kicked me in the head.

And yet you are still giving advice.

Did you ever hear me claim to be a fucking advice columnist?

I’ve heard you complain about not fucking.

Did I ever mention that I hate you?

On a regular basis. But you do give good advice.

That no one heeds. Or needs.

Heeding and needing are two very different creatures.

Yeah. I have figured that out. Sort of like listening to your brain vs your heart.

If you had an advice column, what would you advise people to listen to?

Someone other than me. I have a major in Romance Language. I am clearly a fucking idiot.

Not exactly, but you are harder on yourself than you should be.

I’d probably tell myself that in my advice column, but I am too stupid to listen.

Stop it.

You are right. See? I can listen to advice.

Sure. I will only have to remind you a thousand times not to call yourself a dumbass.

I am a slow learner.

A thousand and one.

Like the Arabian Nights?

Would a dumbass make that reference?

Probably not an American dumbass. It’s not referred to as the 1001 nights in English very often.

The average dumbass wouldn’t know that.

So I am not a dumbass, but a nerd?

You’re impossible!

Being self-deprecating used to be considered charming.

No it didn’t. It has always been fucked up.

Always? Are you sure? Even in the 80’s?

Yes.

Huh. Well, that explains a lot about my lack of success in attracting men.

I doubt very much that attracting men has been an issue for you.

Well…no. Not really. Just keeping them.

Really? You’re still friends with your first several boyfriends.

Some of them. The ones who didn’t trample on my heart.

People seem to like to stay with you. Trample your heart? What are you, 14?

No, 15. Look who’s talking…

Pot. Kettle.

Good night, Mr. Black. Let me know if you need any advice.

I will read it the minute you start that column.

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