Thoughts on the usage of”what’s your objective opinion  “

I think what’s happening when someone asks for an *objective opinion is an untethering of you, the asked, from the protection and safety of polite social niceties. You’ll notice I said “protection and safety”,not “crushing niceness” or whatever. Maybe this is key in how I think about this. Whether or not we claim to like them, polite social norms often protect us from saying what  we really think in situations where it doesn’t matter  what we really think.
When a friend asks for an objective opinion, they are asking to cut you free to possibly  hurt them. They are cutting you free from safety to tell them that their paper isn’t up to standards, that their wardrobe could use improving, that their kid is a shit, that they are going bald, or maybe they are really codependent. They’re setting you loose to give an honest opinion from your heart, and they are not saying that nothing you say will be held against you.

They’re not giving you permission to be cruel.

This isn’t coming out of anywhere in particular. Occasionally I just spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about word usage and why we think the things that we mean, may not mean exactly what we think they do. (could I have said that more confusingly? V unlikely)

I love you. Be nice to each other.
* I don’t really think there’s such a thing as a genuinely objective opinion.

Enjoy these here 🍌 🦆


Books as a metaphor, or something

I’ve always loved myself, once I learnt what that meant. I certainly wasn’t raised with that idea: I was raised from the school of thought that value is earned, that certain people are born with more value than others and that I was one of those with lesser value. (“you’re pretty, but we’ll not say that, wouldn’t want you to think you’re more than you are, you can ruin people by telling them you love them too much”) and from an early point I understood that this was in fact, stupid, despite many attempts to convince me otherwise.

Still, I’ve loved myself.

I’ve loved the fire that rose up through my chest and through the top of my head like the eye of gods, I guess that’s called inspiration.

Because I wasn’t supposed to.

(You couldn’t tell a child-sized me how I was supposed to be, any more than you can tell the wind to not blow the dust around)

Because I was what I had.

Because when I was crazy, I knew it. (When I was crazy, I was like a bullet  crashing through other people’s lives and they loved me, even as the havoc occurred and bones (often mine) broke, even as I couldn’t stop the disaster and hated them for not seeing,) I loved myself a little, even when I hated myself, when I wasn’t trying to die. Somehow I left that part behind, even though I’m saddled with regret from all the damage I caused in peoples lives.

I love myself because when I should have fractured a hundred thousand times or collapsed like some 5-foot-4 black hole, I had the innate sense to hold the pieces of my soul together.

It is because I have loved myself truly and honestly, that when someone holds me in their hands like a book with scars in its leather, I am confident that he will read the book all the way to the end.