little boxes, all the same.

People keep telling me I should be a therapist. I say I know. I feel like that’s what I’m already doing here. Sometimes I think people just need someone to tell them the truth. We spend our lives making friends that we hope will die before we do, a risky reaffirmation that it might just be possible to live forever. We lie to ourselves and say we hope we go first so we won’t have to live through it all. Then it happens, someone goes, passes on, and what’s left is this irrevocable sense of relief. I’m still here, I’m still here, I’m still here. It’s like an itch just below your sock line that irritates throughout the day. You’re awfully sad they’re gone and you loved them but you’re so happy to be alive.

I like to dress the truth up in pretty lies. It’s hard to know what is real and what isn’t real sometimes. I used to put my ken doll in dresses because I thought that was a lie but that was also before I knew anything about gender identity. He came with this little foam razor that, when you heated it up, could shave away his chemically induced stubble if only for a few minutes. I liked things that didn’t make sense and I think I still do. The less it makes sense the more I like it. Ironically I hate math, puzzles, statistics, and anything else that requires me to put two and two together. I think that’s because there is the assumption that there is one real true solution. That things are supposed to fit together precisely perfect in some way.

It was a long time before I differentiated between sociology and psychology. I hated sociology because it viewed groups of people as something that was classifiable. Psychology broke things down to the individual level, to the singular neuron firing. There was something about that which excited me. For sociology I polled people on who they thought was attractive. The entire situation seemed so totally pointless. We were trying to apply reason to something that doesn’t need to have reason. We were trying to put numbers on something abstract. Let it not make sense. Let people like who they like. Drop the orientations, the sub-orientations, the heterosexual or the bisexual or the pansexual. Let it not make sense. Let it be unclassifiable.

When you’re giving someone advice you’re trying to make sense of the non-sense. I don’t think that’s necessarily the same thing as understanding. You’re saying that the world is confusing and fucked up and there are a million different ways of understanding something, you just have to find the right one that clicks.

Have you ever read a book and there was a line that just hit you in the gut? That line, the line that summarized all the things you’d been thinking, and feeling, all the hurt or the joy in your life in some strangers tongue. That’s all advice is.

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