You’ve just seen a show that your friend is in (let’s call him/her ‘Max’). You’ve stayed after to say hello, and Max asks you, “Hey, whadja think?”* You:
A.) tell Max exactly what you thought (whether or not you liked it); or
B.) say, “Nice work!” (whether or not you liked it).
HINT: I’m telling you right now that there is only one right answer to this question.
Alright, I’ll give you another hint – the answer is B, people, OPTION B!!! Option A is not only wrong, but it is so wrong in so many ways. Dude, seriously … really uncool. (Of course, this only becomes a problem if one did not like the show. But who are we kidding … the people who answered “A” never like anything.)
Also (heads up)! You may not cheat and say something like, “Max, you were great! But the show sucks ass.” Not allowed. No good. Lord-a-mercy, TRUST ME! It doesn’t make Max feel any better that s/he was the only good part in a clump of cowboogers. An expense of spirit in a waste of shame … that way, madness lies.
So you hated it. SO WHAT? So the hell what?! Here’s the thing. It’s Max, your friend, right? Ya know? Let’s approach it with a little love, huh? We’ve all had to entire runs of crap-ass shows, and the difference between major depression and skin-of-the-teeth salvation might be the love of a friend who cares enough not to tell the truth until at least 2 weeks after the closing cast party.
Can’t abide dishonesty? Think honesty is more important than kindness? That your truth is more important than your friends’ feelings? That’s sad and also I smite you, you egoful prig! Get a job as a reviewer for The Stranger.
*NOTE TO ‘MAX’: Never, ever ask this question. Seriously. They’ll tell you.
Hopefully there will be less of me in 6 weeks. Let's see, I weigh ... wait a sec. Well, I don't really want to tell you, do I? But holy key-riced! I didn't create this blog to start lying right immediately. Okay. I'm 5'6. I weigh 161 lbs, and wear a size 12. And that AFTER exercising today. Not too bad. But not great either.
Lord knows it's not that I think I'm fat. I'm fine. I look good (and my awesomely delightful yet impishly sexy attitude gets me the rest of the way). But I want to be finer. And not to look finer (although that's a nice side benefit, innit?), but to feel finer. Finer 'n' frog hair, as they say back home. I want to climb the stairs without feeling out of breath. I want to be able to touch my toes easily. I want to be able to hike that trail without wanting to cry because I know I'm holding everyone back. I want to be ATHLETE-GIRL. I always did. Well, I may be breathless, but momma dint raise no fools. I am never going to be "athlete girl". It's ludicrous; I'm way too lazy (although I like to call it "casual").
The reason I can't lose weight (I've been kinda trying) is the same reason I can't quit smoking. Because I'm not that fat, and I don't smoke that much. The justification is too easy to come by. If I was forced to go cold turkey -ha ha- (by which I mean "If I was forced into having some actual balls...") maybe it would be easier. Then I'd know it was gonna be really friggin' hard, and I'd steel myself for it. Currently, I fool myself into thinking that of course it's hard for fat people, but it won't be that hard for me. So then I start my work out, and I'm all like, "What? Fuck this noise, it's fucking hard! I don't look that bad." Yeah, go eat a croissant, ya whiner.
So I've got it pretty good, right? But that doesn't make it easy. And self-knowledge does not bring self-actualization. That takes balls.
scrambled by Peggy Gannon at 11:11 PM