Here’s an example of a major offender: curate. You made a Spotify playlist and embedded it on a Tumblr page? That’s not just clicking things you like on the Internet — far from it! That’s curation. You invited some people over for dinner and made some hard choices about how to dress the salad, what vegetable to put with the main course and where to pick up dessert? My friend, you may not know it, but you’ve curated that meal. Congratulations and welcome to the creative class.
In my defense: I was raised Catholic in a German-Irish family in the Midwest. My people prefer to suffer and to do so in silence. I really never had a chance.
I would further suggest that the ocean of my True Feelings is perhaps not worth diving into. Wade past the obsessions with food and sex that dominate my daily existence, and, depending on my mood, the waters get pretty dark pretty quickly. When you wondered aloud about my feelings, were you wanting to discuss how all the things that humans spend their lives thinking about - relationships, careers, religion, mortality - are ultimately just distractions that serve to keep at bay the terrifying likelihood that our lives have no real significance? Because that is maybe what was on my mind when you asked.
I keep agreeing to spend precious weekend nights covering events like Temptation at the Station, the annual sexy Halloween party for KC's young-professional set that was held Friday, October 25, at Union Station. Why? I try not to think about it too much, but it obviously has something to do with hating myself and believing that I deserve to suffer.
Do I dread these events? Yes. But that doesn't really mean anything. I dread everything. It can take me up to an hour to work up the courage to get in the shower. I just stare at the wall, sighing and frowning and shaking my head. Getting to the grocery store is a whole other set of emotional gymnastics. You don't even want to know.
General-admission tickets to Temptation at the Station, which was presented by the philanthropic organization the Bacchus Foundation, cost $45. But in a rare show of extravagance, my boss agreed to splurge for an $85 VIP pass. "I want you to have the full experience," he said.
"You realize I'm just going to get drunk and lurk around, right?" I said.
"I trust your process," he said.
"American Royal?" he said.
"No, Fashion Week party," I said.
He looked at me and then he looked at my car. The little door to my gas tank has been broken since sometime this past spring. Initially the problem was that the door wouldn't open, and I would have to pry it loose with a screwdriver. Then one day, I was too aggressive with the screwdriver, and I dislodged some part of it. Now it hangs off the side of my car, and people honk at me and point at it when I'm waiting at traffic lights. "Yeah, yeah," I say, nodding my head and waving them off. "I know, I know."
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