Trog and Og

I am a monster, he says.

If you're a monster, then what the hell am I? I ask. Of course I am the monster in this relationship. I am a monster with or without him. A big hairy one. I scare myself frequently.

OK, then, we're both monsters.

I realize his self-assessments have no bearing on what I think of him. And vice versa. We reach our own conclusions.

Nobody hates us like we hate ourselves.

And yet we go around caring so much about what other people think of us, projecting upon them our cares and insecurities!

Fuck that. I want to live freely. I want that for everyone I love too. Especially my younger sister, for whom I've taken up the role of the anxious, overprotective mother. I sit down to write holiday cards to her, trying to refrain from writing hackneyed Hallmark messages. What I really wish for her, besides a season's greeting or a happy birthday, is that she live burdened by nothing but responsibility to her chosen life.

But it's a cheesy thing to say, so I write jokes or cliches instead, year after year. There is so much I want to tell her, but don't. Somewhere along the line we decided that sincerity and mature displays of affection were to be reserved only for non-family members. I do not live freely.


For more on this subject, see: Reflection