I've always been a lady of many opinions. Never one to shy away from telling just about anyone who would bother to listen how I felt about a given topic--a movie, book, album, TV show...what have you--it's clear to me that sometimes I can be kind of a D-bag. I would venture to say that I have in no way reached Kanye levels, but I'm the person who pushes it just a bit too far on occasion. Far enough that I can't escape having others take notice.
There are times when I use the justification that I tell it like I see it. Good old honestly, it never (almost always) fails. There's also that itch to call people out on their bs with a well-placed eye roll. Then there are moments when I think I'm just plain right (there, I said it). You know, sometimes I just can't help it. It's like I have no filter of decorum to mediate how people are perceiving me. Or maybe it's just that in a fleeting instant I don't have the will to care. Certainly, I've made some enemies and hurt some feelings along the way, all of which is hopefully outweighed by the redemptive efforts I've made to be an acceptable, decent person in this life. Somebody you could even like from time to time. But there's nothing mistaking the sideways gut-punch feeling of recognizing your own douchiness staring right at you, telling you what an asshole you can be.
It happened while I was reading I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley on the train the other week. Anticipating big things after a number of girlfriends chalked her up to being the female David Sedaris (no small feat), I eagerly set out to enjoy a dose of wit and happenings gone awry. To my astonishment, I found myself hating it. Loathing it. HATE LOATHING it. I couldn't stop getting pissed at her hackneyed single girl, big city, awkward situations surrounding dating and marriage backdrop. Her disastrous publishing job and run-ins with psycho brides-to-be. Didn't she know that hoards of people already sang that song? Did she not see "Bridget Jones' Diary"? [see also "Bridget Jones 2: Hugh Grant's Revenge]
Then I knew what had transpired. Amidst the dry humor and lady-situated comedic incidents, I hated her for writing things that I would probably have written about myself. My brain instantly started to disassemble her quips and tear them to tiny, insignificant fragments because, in my vainglorious and twisted mind, I wished I had beat her to it. Honestly, I was being a dick.
What does this say about me? Am I a jealous person? I'd like to think not, and that, overall, I can appreciate the fine work of other writers, especially young lady ones. It just so happens that every so often, I'd like to supplant my plot with that of another, and the chasm between me and them makes me want to lash out irrationally. It's part of who I am. It's part of who you are too. It's why we gossip about celebrities, and that skank-bot at the party getting all of the attention from a certain someone. I guess that's what happens when I'm being a jerk, I put my own desire to assert my opinion before checking it with sanity and an occasional dash of sobering humility.
Will I stop being opinionated? That's an emphatic no. Even though some people would like to have it outlawed. I will, however, own up to the fact that I let my douchiness run away with me from time to time. If you can accept that about me, then hey, I'll accept that about you. Because as Professor of Life Kanye so aptly tells us (and shows us), there are D-bags everywhere. It would be silly to deny it, so maybe we should just acknowledge it and I'll try to keep it in check. And to that, I raise my glass to all of you...assholes.
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