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I piss people off. I tell her after a very long talk. You shouldn’t get to know me. I’m a really bad person.
She, of course, argues — because she’s adorable. She’s really sweet. Twenty year old girls always are. She looks like an angel. She believes in miracles. She believes her prince is coming, someday.
And suddenly she is talking to a really interesting ogre. She wants more. She won’t let me just walk away. She does want to get to know me, damn it. She makes her own choices. I know all of that. So I don’t argue the point when she says gently: Well I think you’re interesting. I think you’re an interesting person. I just wish you weren’t so sad. I swear, in a minute she’ll be crying.
I lean over and sigh. Listen, I grab her by the hands softly, you have to understand that I am broken. I’ve always been this way. There is no getting better. I am who I am. My mind was being fractured at the moment my personality formed. That’s all I can figure. I just know that I will always feel shattered at my core. I can accept that about myself. At least I’m trying. Can you handle me if that’s who I am? She’s nodding, and she’s crying, thank you. She’s kissing me on my cheeks and my forehead. In a few days we’re fucking. It’s glorious.
I gave up all lying. We have long conversation. I tell women about who I am. I get more sex with honesty than I ever thought possible.
This is my mantra: One-Hundred-Percent-Sincerity.
Trust me. Just try it.
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I once took a writing seminar with the poet Marvin Bell. He gave me the best writing advice I’ve ever heard. Always write with the intention of pissing some people off.
I still like that. I figured you would, too, Tommy. Be well.
He who loves 50 people has 50 woes; he who loves no one has no woes.