You know how we all like to think of ourselves in a certain way? How we want to see the best person possible, even when all evidence points to the contrary? Why is that? Why can’t we just accept who we are, what we are? Would accepting that we’re less than perfect (or slightly better than totally fucking flawed) really make that much difference?
I’ve been finding out some things about myself, lately. Quinn (the guy from the funeral home) has been kind enough to play the part of enlightener. That’s not really fair. There have been others, too–others who gave me more solid evidence that the person I see in the mirror isn’t who I think she is. But it’s Quinn who drives the knowledge home, makes what they tell me seem more real. Along the way, he somehow manages to do what everyone else has failed to do–make me feel bad about it.
I’ve done some things, recently. I haven’t been a good person. Not remotely. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be this big hero when all I do is fuck up. I’m trying, for once, really trying to do more than just get by. But it seems everything I do just causes damage.
I used to be kind of careless as a kid. I was always rushing around, not paying attention to where I was, only to where I was going. I’d bump into things and break them. “A bull in a China shop,” my mom would always say. She was right. That’s what I was. And it’s still what I am. I’m still rushing towards my destination, leaving little broken pieces scattered behind me.