Every time I sit down to write this column, I have to abandon my first five ideas for fear that I will hurt someone’s feelings. I don’t write fiction and I’m not clever enough to disguise people’s identities. I know a boatload of freaks, and sometimes I wish I could tell you all about them. I have a mail-carrier story I’m dying to tell, but he might make the connection and spit between the pages of my Pottery Barn catalog, or make my subscription to Us Weekly become Us Monthly.
Some freaks you work with, some you sleep with, and some you share genealogy with. I do try to respect their privacy. Unfortunately, what ends up happening is I overcompensate by revealing my own spleen every chance I get. So I have this radio show, and frequently kind strangers will sheepishly say to me, “I feel as though I know you,” to which I respond, “Umm, that’s because you do.” Someone asks me how I’m doing; “Fine, thanks, and you?” is not a part of my makeup. Why I feel compelled to verbally rip out an internal organ and lay it in their lap confounds me, and yet I keep doing it. Usually I’m quite sensitive to the people who just want to get a quick answer and be done with me; these are the people I punish. “Oh you’re in a hurry? Well, I brought Satchmo, my oldest cat, the one who smells like waffles and fabric softener, to the vet and discovered she only has two teeth! They start off with thirty, y’know?” Maybe this is all in preparation for my golden years, when it will be socially acceptable and practically expected to tell strangers about my lower back pain, paranoid conspiracy theories, and general feelings of loneliness. I’m just getting one huge-ass head start. By the way, I have nothing but the highest praise for employees of the United States Postal Service. Email Mary at popularcreeps.yahoo.com
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