photo courtesy of the author
Eyes feeling tired? Take a listen to the full essay below. I'd love to read it to you.*
*I hope you'll excuse the few, minor flubs. What can I say, sometimes the truth is imperfect.
I have no idea what possessed you to show up at my screen door, uninvited and unannounced, at dusk, with a gift I didn’t ask for and didn’t want. I have no idea why you felt it necessary to take it upon yourself to tell me how to live my life or train my dog. I don’t remember asking for your advice. I don’t remember asking for your help. I don’t remember showing you where I live and I certainly don’t remember inviting you over.
I remember walking my dog. I remember living my life. I remember being kind. I remember smiling. I remember engaging in polite conversation. But I don’t remember an invitation.
Because there was no invitation.
So what was it about me walking, living, being, smiling and engaging in my own life, that led you to believe what was rightfully mine was yours for the taking? What part of me existing made you think that existence was there for your consumption? For your manipulation. For your use. For your pleasure. For your want. For your desire. What part of me walking down the street made you think I was there for you?
I don’t want your gifts. I don’t want your advice. I don’t want your looks and your stares. I don’t want your conversation. I don’t want your help. I don’t want your attention. I don’t want to come over. I don’t want to hear you tell me how pretty you think I am. I don’t want to ride in your car. I don’t give a shit about your fucking car. And I especially don’t want you at my door with your expectations and your implications and your insinuations.