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That's what I said to NPR's Terry Gross back in early December when she suggested we avoid discussing something potentially awkward. It was the briefest of moments-- a single filament of a surprisingly hairy broadcast-- but it was surprising how many people later told me it was their favorite part of the program. We can talk. It's all right. I'm actually in a phase where I'm really, really into talking about it.
I get asked a lot why I've chosen to be so confessional as a writer. I've publicly documented aspects of my life that most people wouldn't reveal to their shrink, spouse, girlfriend, or partially deaf Dachshund. The stuff that polite folks confine to the pages of padlocked journals, I've treated as a matter of open discussion. I mean, I described my pussy in Candy Girl. I didn't do it just to be confrontational or freaky, even though I'd proudly tape both adjectives on my forehead. I did it because I thought there might be other girls reading who'd go, "Hey, I have an outie too!" (Not everyone has an adorable porno pussy, boys; someone's gotta rep for the outies.)
I think that's what it's all about. When you possess the courage-- or blunt, gourd-smacking stupidity-- to be totally candid, you silently amass thousands of allies. It's the "me too" effect. As Steven Morrissey (Esq., Demigod) says, there is no such thing in life as normal. And if you walk around pretending to be normal, hiding your scars and incisions and putrescing wounds, you only further the Conspiracy of Normal, which exists to make us all feel like shit.
I ain't having that. I refuse to act like I have it together, because I don't. Last night I unearthed a couple of horse pills left over from my BOOB JOB (note caps!), poured a nice Syrah and got myself fucked up with Special Guest Star A Pack of Cigarettes.*
*I like to make my vices sound like Love Boat cameos. Luckily, this wasn't the episode where they wind up in Cedars-Sinai.
Oh yeah, there was crying. Fuck yeah, I cry all the time. I'm an almost-30-year-old woman in knee socks who cries. I also piss myself when I laugh too hard. How about you?
I know I have to be wary of mines these days. Have to be more cautious. I won't expose the people around me, especially friends that I know to be Private Benjamins. I probably won't write about my love life ever again (which is a shame because I enjoy ruminating on the soul-ripping muscle-taxing mindfuckery of relationships.)
So I gotta be more quiet from now on. Things are changing. This I know. But that's not saying much.
We can talk. It's all right.
7:29 PM
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