It’s Not My Fault I Have Superb Taste for a Pirate

I fancy myself a very open-minded and open-hearted person, but my husband would tell you that, although my arms are wide and welcoming, each idea or person who enters only gets a narrow sliver of my tolerance.

Recently he said something like, “You’re one of the most empathetic, kind people I know…but you’re not very nice.” And so I punched him in the throat. The end.

Actually, I laughed, because I felt busted. He knows me pretty well. Dammit. I guess after twenty-five years together he’s bound to have accidentally observed some of my foibles. Oh, God, do you think he knows that I fart, too?

Trust. He knows.

So, anyway, I’m a pretty judgmental prick. Other friends and family members who trust me and whom I trust have also lovingly pointed this out. My purpose in life is to love, but I’m kind of an a-hole about it.

For example, I will love the shit out of you living your best, most gorgeous versions of your life, and I will be proud of you and defend and cheerlead for you, but you have about thirty seconds to tell me about it or I’m annoyed that you’re talking too much.

Another example: I’m in talks with a friend about joining her as a co-host on her podcast, and so I’m sending her messages all the time like, “Ok, I was listening to a podcast the other day where the cohosts were all laughing and enjoying themselves. They seemed really happy and it was disgusting. Let’s not do that.”