What is it like for you to feel understood? What is it like for you to feel not understood? Is it them or is it you?
Say you grew up not far from a place of learning known to be fancy. Fancy girl in ironic not fancy ironed clothes goes, “You’re not supposed to say that.” First time you ever heard you weren’t supposed to say something that wasn’t even shit, fuck, pussy, cunt, asshole or any of the other ones, just something the ivy tower spin doctors weren’t spinning and were telling their fans not to spin either. What did you know about that before? But now you were set straight. But you wouldn’t have put it like that anymore, which could be good if you knew why and simply found better ways to put.
Same time though, a not ironic fancy guy comes walking by you just when you were practicing the newthink that goes with the newspeak, and he gives you the speech about elitist egalitarianism which you didn’t know was a thing, and you totally get that too, and it makes you see the fog in the air around the tower and you just want to go home. I mean, you appreciated being set straight once, set straight again — zigged and then a zagged. But you just want to go home. Never mind the dictionary picture of disgust by fancy girl once at the place of learning party with subsidized drugs, who said, “You teach at a private school?” Ironiclast! You didn’t know you were supposed to be doing Americorps. You really didn’t. Never mind the anti-egalitarian elitism Alex P. Keaton who zagged you, either. Never mind how far you could see from the tower, which you started to not be able to see from. How far could you see from home?
Anyway, so couple years go by. You bump into fancy girl and she’s in line with Keaton guy for the big bank job sign up sheet. “Consultants get to travel a lot, so.” She’s holding dude’s hand, and you’re like what the fuck. Shit. Assholes. And the other ones. There would be private jets for them. There would be reunions when they didn’t talk about what they were and weren’t supposed to say anymore. They would just be living. Like I was before I met those assholes. Me, not you. I don’t know a damn thing about you. I wonder if they felt understood by me?
One day years later, I run into fancy girl and she tells me, “You were the one who told me to just be myself.”
Dammit, if I can’t trust myself, can you?