Intent is a bitch

So to you, the truth is still hidden
And the soul plays the role of a lost little kitten but
You should know that the doctors weren’t kiddin?
She’s been singing it all along
But you were hearing a different song.
–White Stripes/Denial Twist

Sometimes people are trying to tell you something, but you hear something very different from what they really mean.

This happens to me all the time.
More than it probably should.

In the past it was largely because I would read meaning into the simplest things because I would assume that people’s intentions were bad. Not people, lovers. Men. And that isn’t necessarily the case.

By “in the past” I mean last week. Or, uh, yesterday. This morning. OK, I am really, really trying to assume good intent. It’s hard. Trying. Really.

And why was “you must want to hurt me” set as my baseline? Most people don’t want to hurt other people in general, and certainly not me in particular. In my whole life only a couple of people have ever hurt me on purpose.

I’m not talking about people accidentally hurting me, or hurting me because they don’t want me the same way I want them. You can’t get through life without a certain amount of hurt. People don’t always have wishes, desires that mesh completely. Sometimes they want different things. I’m talking about people setting out to do damage on purpose.

There haven’t been very many times when someone has acted that maliciously.

But my default was already set to suspicious.

Maybe there were just enough times when I was hurt accidentally that I had a hair trigger for mistrust.

For most of my life, I didn’t even try to curb it. I let it rule everything. To my detriment, as I finally learned. There is only so much mistrust that you can feel without it poisoning everything.

So now? I’m trying not to do that. At work, wherever. Assume that people are not out to get me. At work the challenge is that other people’s competence/work ethic/inability to do their own job can impact my own job and my standards. Still, though, most of the time they aren’t doing it because they want to screw me over. They just suck at what they do. Sometimes they can be helped, sometimes they can’t, but if I approach it with a mindset that it isn’t about ME it can help. It also helps that they can’t really hurt me all that badly because I’m not that emotionally invested into work. The damage is limited.

Outside of work? Well, it’s easier to assume good intent with friends, family, loved ones. After all, you love them. They love you. Of course, the possible downside is proportional. Those are the people who can inflict the most damage.

There’s a certain amount of vulnerability that goes with trust. I don’t know about how a person goes about being that open all the time. I guess it depends on what the upside is.

Supposedly, you get a richer life.

I guess I will find out if I keep trying.







Ain’t Misbehaving

Certe notti se sei fortunato bussi alla porta di chi è come te.
C’è la notte che ti tiene tra le sue tette un po’ mamma un po’ porca com’è.
Quelle notti da farci l’amore fin quando fa male fin quando ce n’è.
–Ligabue/Certe Notti

Whatever gets you through the night
It’s alright
–John Lennon

Sometimes in order to get through something you do things that might be out of character. Or even things you think are wrong. Wrong with a capital W, even. Drink, drugs, general sexual knavery.

Sometimes? It’s understandable. We all have days and nights where we’re just kind of holding on by the fingernails. Trying not to fall off the precipice. Or jump off.

If a drug fueled night of sexual knavery keeps you here another day, and nothing else would? You do what you have to do. It’s not great as a long term plan, but if it’s an emotional emergency? Maybe it’s all that will work.

Or maybe your thing isn’t sexual malfeasance, but drinking or drugs. Whatever. If it keeps you from doing something even more desperate than the drinking and drugs? Go for it. On a temporary basis.

Then, when the immediate crisis is past. Call someone. Get help. Figure out how to deal with it in some way.

Because band-aiding whatever it is with booze, drugs and sex is only sustainable for short periods of time.

Uh. I hear.

Sexual Knavery would be a good band name though.

Aside:
On Sunday, WordPress notified me that it was the 7 year anniversary of when I signed up with them. I’ve actually been writing on the blog for…oh…I don’t know…10 months or so.

So you could say that it has taken me 7 years to write 152,000 words. That’s about 1800 words a month. Or, you could say that it’s taken me 10 months, or 15,200 words a month.

Either would be true.
I wonder if I will get to 200,000 by July when I’ll have been doing this for a year? I mean, without cheating.

It’s a good thing WordPress is free.
It’s an even better thing that I don’t depend on words for money.

Anyway, that’s a lot of words for anyone to write. Even if there’s not a lot of point to most of them. Especially since I’ve spent most of my life keeping them all in.

Thanks for reading them.

Imaginary conversation about cats

How do you feel about cats?

Cats? You know how I feel about cats. I hate cats.

Hate is such a strong word.

What did you do?

Do? What do you mean what did I do?

Did you get a fucking cat?

I don’t think a cat would be fucking, necessarily. I mean, one cat? It wouldn’t even be possible for it to..

Did you get a non-fucking cat?

Why would I get a cat? You hate cats.

I’m starting to hate you, too.

Are not. You love me. It doesn’t matter what I do. You can’t help it. Even if I bought a cat, you’d love me. An expensive cat. A fancy Dijon cat. Why are you pretending to bang your head against the wall?

You suck.

I do. That’s one of the reasons you love me.

Incorrigible, you are.

I really am.

So.

So?

The cat.

What cat? There is no cat, Neo.

Oh, good.

But if there was a cat, rhetorically speaking…a black one, with a white Hitler mustache. How would you feel about it?

Bad. I would feel bad.

Why would you feel bad about a rhetorical cat?

None of this even has a point, does it?

Why do you look so discouraged? You keep saying I should talk more. I’m practicing.

To other people. You should talk more to other people.

Other people don’t understand when I talk about imaginary cats.

Rhetorical.

See? You do understand me!

I…oh, God. I did understand that. And stop smiling.

It makes me happy when people understand me. When I’m happy, I smile. You like it when I’m happy, don’t you?

I do.

I didn’t get a cat.

That’s a relief.

I got 2 pairs of shoes instead. Red ones.

Of course you did, because you couldn’t get a cat.

No one understands me like you do, baby.

What did you get me?

Vodka, a bag of grapefruit, and a very nice pair of argyle socks. I accidentally turned all of the grapefruit into juice, so we should probably start drinking it right away. It’s practically an emergency.

You understand me pretty well, too.

You wouldn’t have looked nearly this happy if I’d gotten a cat.

I’d still be pretty happy.

Because I’d still have bought you the vodka. Probably an even better one…

We’ll go with that.

I knew what you meant, George.

I know you did, baby.