I mean, really: what business was it of mine anyway?
Every time I take a cool, hard stare at myself, I’m stunned at the level of “control” I seem to desire. Why can’t I just let people live where they want to live, make the mistakes they’re going to make, and understand that my involvement, while occasionally cute and very occasionally germane, doesn’t necessarily make anything better?
I so wish I hadn’t said anything, just enjoyed the company and not worried about Changing Anyone for the Better. Perhaps it was all those years fighting to be heard by a family with too many voices and conflicting agendas, maybe we all learned the lesson that to get what you desired in our house, you had to scream, cajole and manipulate. That might have worked in that microcosm, but the greater world sees the plan, and like God, it laughs.
Everyone knows I’m just here on a thread of coincidences anyway, right? A few unmade beds and a wrong left turn, and I’d still be back in some house somewhere, suffering from a surfeit of ideas and a poverty of cash, nursing crushes and resentments on roommates and wondering if the Insurgency had begun and I missed it.
Who says I have any idea what the right path is for anyone else, when my own journey was fraught with such bullshit? I feel like the opposite of the “Footprints” parable, with the worst of times being littered with a gazillion footprints in the sand, and my path being as garbled as cursive. If someone had come to me in my lowest hour and been even the slightest bit judgmental, I’d have told them to fuck off but fast.
I am calling a moratorium on my advice. I begged my friends to move to a place that was quickly attacked with three thousand perished, what the fuck do I know? I have set people up on dates because I liked the idea of them being together, and only served to embarrass myself. From now on, I am just trying to be a worker among workers, no more dime-store interventions, no master plans.
I’m here as a favor, through the kindness of strangers, through the good graces of those who love me. In return, I can provide witty banter, an hour or three of in-depth analysis of minutiae, a three-shot latté with Macadamia Nut syrup, pretty much any pop song on guitar, and a trundle bed for you to rest on. I will try not to presume anything more.