I’m scared to share my opinion with you.
Not necessarily right now, but at certain times, in general.
I just think you may get my intention wrong. See, I’m not a very analytical guy. As soon as something gets confusing or arduous, I move on to something else. When my brain starts to hurt, it usually means it’s time to do something less… daunting.
I don’t like researching factual type stuff. As for this blog or any of my personal writing, I’d rather just tell you what I think right now.
As freeing as this is, it creates a lot of problems. It seems most people who write opinionated articles online claim they share the gospel truth. They do a lot of research to back up their arguments.
If you read my opinions, I fear you’ll think I’m doing the same thing. Like I’m staking a claim — lodging a flag in the ground that I’m willing to fight for.
But this is the furthest thing from the truth. See, I know I don’t really know. I know my mind will likely change sooner or later.
I write here to examine and share my sight, not to point truth at the thing I’m talking about.
Like, right now, there’s two young girls chatting in front of me at the coffee shop. One of them is angry. She’s been angry for over an hour. I’m listening to music and I keep hearing ‘fuck’ above the music I’m enjoying (which isn’t quiet — it’s Norah Jones and Norah is never to be played quiet).
She seems to be mad at her friends. The typical teenage thing. They made fun of her or something. So it’s, “fuck her, fuck him, fuck them all.”
The drama in her mind is even louder than her words. Here she is — a caucasian female in seemingly good health living in the western world and sitting in a Starbucks with high-speed internet that rests below one of the most beautiful mountain ranges in the world — complaining very loudly about… her friends making fun of her.
She just called one of her friends and cussed him/her out.
I’m thinking she should go home and handle her personal out-loud profanity-laden phone calls and verbalized mental thrashing from there. I didn’t realize this was her bedroom. Let us listen to our Norah Jones, sip our coffees, and write in peace (see how I’m grouping everyone together in solidarity with me, in my mind — nice trick, ego).
But there she is. Ranting and waving away. In front of all of us. As we sit quietly and tolerate it.
I want to go over there and splash coffee on her face. Pretty sure she’d stop worrying so much about her friend if I did that. But then she might pull out a knife and stab me. Maybe I’ll just keep sitting here tolerating it like everyone else. Probably so.
See, now my story is being affected. I was fine when I started writing this, but now I want to take borderline violent measures to make her stop. This is how fast the ego springs onto the scene.
But I’m noticing it. Pump the brakes, Jonas.
Because here’s the thing — I might be wrong. Maybe she should be able to have a heated conversation with a friend at a coffee shop. Maybe I should go to a private office and work. Either way, I appreciate her giving me the greatest gift I could possibly ask for — fodder to write and share my opinions about.
As beautifully untruthful as they may be.