Monday, June 20 at 3:14, I was complaining. Oh, I know – I know – it's not good for my soul. And yet, complaining to a friend is irresistible. Especially when the friend keeps saying things like, "you're not complaining; you're just explaining how you feel!" Or when your friend keeps asking for more details about how this other person did you wrong.
I kind of feel like an alcoholic: I think just about every single night I come home and regret what I had said earlier in the day. I promise myself that I'm not going to do that complaining thing tomorrow, and I go to sleep devising strategies for ways to avoid it. And then the next day rolls around, and a friend comes along, and takes the first drink – or rather utters the first grumble. And then we're off, galloping along on a complaining binge, me thinking about the damage this does my immortal soul, and both of us nonetheless enjoying the airing of our shared grievances, the act of venting weaving a web around the two of us that binds us closer together in a shared, grumbly of friendship.
That's what I was doing; I was complaining. Oh, me.
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