From One of the Sides

For a few weeks now, I've been debating how much I should write about the English instructor. Occasionally, people reveal very personal details to me about their life, and I choose not to include it in any blog because I realize that that information is classified or given under the assumption that I won't spread it around like a gossip magazine. In another sense, I also believe that writing should be about everything and anything, and especially about all of the shit we want to keep hidden. However, in some cases, I'm making the direct decision to open up parts of people whom would rather just stay in some dark corner at the end of a long, dusty hallway. Is it really my decision to make?

Largely, people can't stop you from writing about them, especially if it's the true (Trump is figuring out this lesson).

Again, people trust you with certain information, and you have to respect that.

So, mostly, I couldn't write about the conversation I had with the English instructor at the coffee shop. Because if I write about myself, and how I feel about him, I then have to include some personal tid-bits about him. The conversation, realistically, wasn't that dramatic, but I couldn't help reading into it.

"He has a bunch of turds in his plate, and you want to get into the middle of it!" The LSU Professor said to me today over lunch. We were both standing on grass under a tree next to the restaurant, waiting for Beck to pee (she didn't, by the way).

"I know! But I go after the wounded birds," I said, and then I began making hand motions like I'm stroking the wings.

"And you want to help them," he concluded.

I repeated his words, "And I want to help them. I want to heal them."

While, ironically, I'm the one who needs the most help. Perhaps this drive inside of me is based on the premise that even if I can't be cured, it shouldn't stop me from trying to do the same for others. In a way, it's escaping your problems because you spend your time arguing about someone else's flaws, and the means to "fix" them.

Or maybe it's because you don't believe you deserve someone who loves you and pays attention to you. Instead, you're always trying to earn that privilege by "being there," and being a goddamn doormat--hell, I don't know.