Life as a Curmudgeon

It's a gift, really. I can't say I've practiced it. I've always done it. It's one of my few natural talents. I've worked my ass off to master many things, but not being a curmudgeon.

I wrote a letter, by hand, complete with charts and diagrams last night, or, well, early this morning. I wrote it to a friend who really is happy for the first time in a long time. And that makes me happy. But at the same time, there's more to the story.

Which I've already related enough of.

After not sleeping most of the night in a fuming rage, I napped a few hours, woke up, and started a chart. And then wrote three pages. By hand. After wearing them out working on a drier. And this morning while we were drinking tea she made, her current man-friend came up, and I started my usual stream-of-consciousness ramblings about whatever happened to be in my head.

And it happened to be him, since I had just written a letter about him, her, and other things. I mentioned to her that I wanted her to understand that I didn't hate him at one point. And then she actually did get a bit angry for the first time in a long time at me.

She thought that I believed that how I felt about her choice in men was important. But really it's not. And I explained that, but it's difficult to convey, really. So then she said that she would probably understand better after reading the letter. Maybe she is right.

But as long as she is dating him, no matter what I think, he's as much a friend as she is. I don't agree with everything my friends do. I can't. If I did, I'd not be me.

I'd be someone I hate. And I think my friends would not be friends if I were that person.