I have no idea why people confide in me. Granted, I live in a city where everyone boasts, especially of their faults & sins, but even here I'm the lucky soul who gets to hear the Real Ghastly Truth That No One Else Knows. Just ducky.
Exactly what makes anyone think I am a worthy recipient of these sad secrets (I am short & can't run away fast enough, perhaps), I don't know, or I'd change it. There's remarkably little variety, & unlike my friends in the 1980s who had sex lives of spectacular & hilarious complexity, no one these days comes up with amusing confessions. And if I've even halfway paid attention, I've figured it out beforehand (& might prefer not to have my suspicions confirmed).
In NY, the natives & many of the more recent arrivals do take great pride in their flaws. I was raised to offer sympathy when someone moaned on about being an asshole, for example, or better yet to deny it ("be fair to yourself, what else could you have done?"), & even after all these years the kindly denial machine kicks in. Not safe here: tell New Yorkers that they are not assholes & they will set out to prove to you beyond a doubt that they are.
The same great blessing follows here as back home, however: hear The Truth once from someone & get radio silence for weeks, months or even always. Peaceful, yes, but rather depressing. I'm not sure whether it's shame, embarrassment, or (most likely) the joyful lightness of having dropped a load onto someone else.
Some varieties of car wax supposedly protect the finish against bird shit. To hell with Chicken Soup for the Soul, I need Turtle Wax for the Psyche.
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