megfowler.com

Once there was a little fish named Meg.

She wasn’t actually that little. Actually, kind of round. But not too long, so still technically little.

What Meg wanted more than anything in the world was to have little fish fry. Not fried fish, mind you, because that would be weird, considering that she was a fish.

(In fact, just tonight Meg learned the name for baby fish, and it sounds about as suitable as calling baby pigs, “Bacon”.)

A couple years ago, Meg learned that she could not have fry of her own. This was tough, but she kept swimming and breathing as best she could through her gills and looking on the bright side. Which was up, since the sun reflects on the water.

And she knew she would be okay, eventually.

What she also knew is that she’d take someone else’s fry to be her fry.

Kind of like she used to at McDonald’s when she got the small size and wanted more and someone wasn’t looking.

But that isn’t really how adoption works.

That’s more kidnapping, and for that they put you in the Fish Gulag. Otherwise known as Petco.

Wait, where is this going?

Tonight, I watched Juno. Which everyone has been telling me to see, because a) apparently I am Juno-esque, save for my inability to bake buns in my home oven; and b) I would write a movie like this, left to my own devices. Apparently.

And it made me cry, of course, because it’s not just about Juno, but about Vanessa, who wanted to be a mom so badly… and then she was.

As I will be, one day.

Probably not by myself, because hello, I am too lazy for such things. Really. I’d get even less sleep and then walk fatally into a wall or something.

But I want it more than anything. And I believe I will be good at it. I don’t need to bake my own bun to love the warm bun-ness of it all.

Which is where the tears come from. Not out of sadness, but just knowing something good is coming and so why not blubber about it?

Because that’s what I do.

Or, you know… I can always just get some fries.

When I leave my house in the morning, I usually take one last peek at myself in the mirror by the door to make sure that I haven’t left a velcro roller in (I have, twice), that there’s no toothpaste around my mouth (because foaming at the mouth is something people might not want you to do on transit) or that I haven’t neglected to put on clothing (because, you know, I get distracted.)

Sometimes that glance makes me cringe, because I notice some random, wiry gray hair sticking up from my head like a flag on the moon, or because my eyes look puffed out like Large Marge from the Pee Wee movie.

I always walk away, though, because what can you do? That’s how I look. Put on some music, and let’s go.

That cursory check is just about equal to the amount of time I’ve spent walking through my own head lately.

I pop in to make sure nothing has blown up or caught on fire, and then I head out again, secure in the knowledge things will hold for one more day, or one more week, or however long it takes me to notice blood running out one ear from the sheer pressure of thoughts piling up.

Now, you might laugh when I say that, given the reality that I am both a writer and a blogger. This must mean I have cornered the market on navel gazing and self-reflection and BLAH BLAH BLAH THE VOICE OF MY HEART. And you are welcome to. I know all this is madness on some level.

But I’m awfully good at wading around in my own head and splashing enough that you might think I’ve gone deeper.

“She’s soaked. She must have gone for a swim.”

Nope. Shallow end.

It’s easier that way.

Then again, completely not.

So I dove in just now and looked a little harder in the mirror (and any other metaphors I could possibly include to indicate I was paying attention to my insides for a sec.)

You know what?

It’s a bit rough in there.

I feel like I’ve been passive about a lot of things, selfish about a lot of things, ignorant about a lot of things, confused about a lot of things, wrong about a lot of things, and pessimistic about a lot of things.

Not the positive, jolly, Love Listing girl who comes back grinning like an inflatable clown punching bag, no sir.

Just weary. And a bit lame.

I could chalk it up to being sick, and the fact that I needed to stay on the surface to keep going. Because that lasted a hell of a long time, and isn’t over yet. But that’s no great excuse. All I had was pneumonia, not the Black Plague.

I could chalk it up to being busy, but eh. Busy is busy. I’m going to be busier someday, so I better learn to be a human being through it now.

But regardless of the why, I’ve been silent here, mostly.

Because this is a mirror.

And I was running by.

If I don’t like what I see, though, I need to DO something, not just walk away.

That doesn’t mean I want to stand there and stare into the core of my soul for hours. That’s not helpful to anyone. That doesn’t make life go forward. That doesn’t make me a better person.

It just makes me a lameass who is abundantly versed in my own lameassedness.

No, I’d rather be a lameass who looks long enough to see why, and then stops. And learns. And evolves. And gets on with it.

It’s a seconds-longer action, but it makes all the difference.

So I’ll try.

I love you.

I should say that right off the bat, lest you take the rest of what I might say here personally.

I honestly do.

When you and I come together and it’s right and good and awesome, I find it nearly impossible to let you go.

Unfortunately, we don’t do that very often.

And when I say not very often, I mean hardly ever.

And when I say hardly ever, I mean rarely.

And when I say rarely, I mean… I’m tired.

I can lie in bed for hours yawning, but you sit just out of reach like an angry cat left alone with a dish of kibble all day.

I can refrain from looking at my laptop and throw my alarm clock into the deep blue sea, but you shrug and stare into space and make noncommital conversation about indie bands.

I can slow my thoughts down and breathe in time and say goodnight to my toes one by one, but I know full well that you won’t snuggle in for the spoon anytime soon.

You will do what you will do.

And until you do it with me, I’ll walk around like an affable zombie, making endearing spelling mistakes and tripping over air.

So what do I want?

What I want from you is a commitment. The assurance that you will come and stay. The knowledge that when I need you, you will be there.

But you are the ultimate casual dater, keeping your options and my eyes open until it seems like the dark blue sky of dawn might come and make me cry.

Don’t make me cry.

Don’t let me be lonely tonight.

Don’t let me be.

I miss you.

Just saying.

Love,

Meg

I believe that coffee covers over a multitude of wrongs.

I believe that, while beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, ugly usually rests right around the ankles.

I believe that the face you make when you eat grapefruit juice is how you will look in thirty years.

I believe that the ability to forgive completely is a survival skill.

I believe that everything in life seems more simple when you’re watching a kitten spaz out about a string.

I believe that turning into my mom is not the dramatic event I thought it was at age 13.

I believe that marketing pitches and romantic comedies always make me wonder what I’m missing out on… and are essentially the same damn thing.

I believe that calories you eat while laughing disappear. They might show up later, but then you beat them with a stick.

I believe that what you say about other people says much more about you than it does about them.

I believe that white and black are not boring shades for clothing… but purple totally is.

I believe that Oreos have much to teach us about living in harmony.

I believe that how I see myself is pretty accurate… but my response is probably a little harsh.

I believe that half the time I should just shut up. And the other half of the time, I should be on alert for the same.

I believe that love is possible, but like is equally cherishable.

I believe that flowers are always best right before they bloom fully, and right before they wilt.

I believe that I usually like people more after I’ve seen them dance.

I believe Rick Astley deserves all the airplay.

I believe that butterflies are just hairy men in dresses.

I believe that if I stayed out in the sun long enough, I might grow another inch.

I believe that the ability to create a good moment at a difficult time is a priceless skill.

I believe that you don’t always know what’s best for you… but no one else might right then, either.

I know how to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit and back again.

I know how to make a flatline poker face.

I know how to get those stains out of your grout.

I know how to choose a good melon.

I know how to drive men up the wall… and not in a good way.

I know how to drive most people up the wall… and sometimes, I mean to do it.

I know how to tape off a room for painting.

I know how to make your PC run faster (get a Mac to chase it! Ohohohoho…)

I know how to how to stand up for what I believe.

I know how to say seven bad words in French, two in Yiddish, four in Italian, and many, many bad words in an Irish accent.

I know how to throw a decent spiral.

I know how to embarrass the hell out of myself in public.

I know how to knock the cap off a pop bottle with a pistol from 75 feet.

I know how to be overwhelming.

I know how long it takes to get through university when you keep changing your plans.

I know how to stop avocado from going brown before you make the guacamole.

I know how to drive a dump truck.

I know how to lull a baby to sleep.

I know how to hold back tears long enough to speak at both weddings and funerals, despite my mom crying somewhere nearby.

I know how to shave my legs in a creek.

I know how to do the perfect roasted marshmallow.

I know — despite all evidence to the contrary — how to shut up.

I know how to buy a men’s suit AND get it tailored properly… for a man, that is, not me.

I know how to live on nearly nothing in a month and make a great dinner out of onions and potatoes and a wilted apple.

I know how to make my dad laugh.

I know how to find the harmony.

I know how to hit a punching bag properly.

I know how to throw a javelin, a shotput, and a discus… but there’s no guarantee you won’t get NAILED.

I know how to play exactly four songs on the piano and five chords on the guitar. And two songs on the recorder.

I know how to draw a bowl of fruit and paint a cloud in a blue sky.

I know how to whip a sentence into shape.

I know how to throw a good party where even the oddest people there have some fun (including me.)

I know how to put things off.

I know how to make your lips look bigger, your cheekbones higher, and your eyebrows much less bushy.

I know how to put up a tent. And then put it up again when it falls down. And then again. Okay, maybe I don’t.

I know how to scare the heck out of people with my lazy eye.

I know how to break your nose if you jump out at me from a bush.

I know how to get 250 kids to stand in complete silence for whole minutes at a time.

I know how annoying I am to hold accountable.

I know how annoying I am when I get going on something that only I care about.

I know how annoying I am when I’m annoying.

I know how to pull a good shot, make good foam, and do it all 40 times in ten minutes or less.

I know how to make a list.

I know how little any of this matters when it all comes down… but I also know how important it is to know what you know.

I’ve always felt the idea of karma was a good one, even if the religious definition of the word doesn’t tie into my own beliefs.

After all, thinking through how our actions affect others — and then changing them up accordingly — is a gracious, mindful way to live. And I want to live as mindfully and graciously as possible.

(In addition to being noisy and jarring, that is.)

Then I catch myself practicing major conflict avoidance and slotting that in under the notion of karma, too, even though there’s little that’s altruistic about it… it’s really just being a risk-free chickenhead.

“Just watch yourself, girl… you don’t want to deal with that later.”

or…

“I wonder what people will think?”

or…

“I really don’t need to deal with the reactions.”

Yeah.

Not, “I can’t help but do this.”

Not, “Hey, that seems like the right thing to do, even if it might get awkward.”

Not, “This is clearly the choice that is most true to my goals and ethics and dreams.”

Nope.

Just, “Keep your head down, dumbass.”

And I hate the idea of avoiding my convictions because people might react the wrong way to whatever I might do.

Because then it’s not about right or wrong anymore… it’s just about not trusting people to maintain their faith in me. Anticipating a reaction without having confidence in my actions.

Sometimes — though this goes against every polite, Canadian, minister’s daughter bone in my body — the right thing will get the wrong reaction. No matter how well-meaning, no matter how close to your heart.

And sometimes, the reaction just has to hit you. You can’t duck it.

And sometimes the reaction shouldn’t matter. You can’t let it.

And sometimes you have to let yourself be how you’re going to be, even if it messes things up for a while. People who love you will either get on board… or love you anyway.

I will never go out of my way to hurt anyone, at least anyone who isn’t the Hooters Owl mascot or Joe Francis or Chris Pronger.

(That’s karma, too.)

But I can’t stop moving down a path because it starts out a bit rocky.

I think I was born with opinions.

Seems like baby opinions would be pretty basic.

Food is good.
Gas is bad.
Dry diapers are good.
Loud noises are bad.
Warm is good.
Being picked up is good.
Sleep is good.
I like that stupid face you make.
No, the other one. The blue fuzzy one. Yes.

And I’m sure I had all that going on. But I honestly can’t remember a time when I didn’t have a set of giant, passionate convictions ruling my mind and my heart… and my mouth.

Even in my crib. Even when I could barely walk. Even when I was standing in a sandbox in muddy shorts and rainbow flip flops. Even when I was just three feet high and rising.

Even if it was just CLOWNS ARE BAD or BEDTIME SHOULD NOT BE A LAW, I was green-eyed willful and vocal from the beginning. No crib could hold me down.

My convictions are a little different at 33 (though I still struggle with bedtime and clowns), but instead of just frustrating my mother or bewildering my teachers or making people laugh with their sheer force, now they take on the world.

They come out in rushes. They demand a response. They start and win (or lose) arguments. They push buttons. They get my heart pounding. And they make my life complicated.

Things I feel spiritually.

Things I feel politically.

Things I feel socially.

Things I just FEEL that defy characterization, but generate no less passion than the rest.

Sometimes I think pure idealism fuels that fire, but I know that certain things come from a cynical place inside me, too. From being disappointed. From watching other people struggle. From keeping my eyes open to the world around me.

Still, at the very core, I want things to be better. Not perfect, mind you, because perfect is both impossible in most cases (and often undesirable to me.)

But good. Healthy. Right. True.

But the more time I spend talking with people about their convictions, the more I realize that I really haven’t completely thought through what defines good, healthy, right, and true for me.

I mean, I obviously believe the things I say, but why? I’ll defend them with fire and fury, but how much do I really know about what I’m saying? How much consideration comes before I open my mouth? How much digging did I do before I laid a foundation?

And do I even think what I’ve always thought anymore?

I’ve still been sharing my opinions, but I’ve been doing more listening, too. And it’s humbling to learn that passion isn’t always my best friend, my best attribute. Sometimes it’s just a set of earplugs or a blindfold that allows me to see the world the way I want to see it, not how it really is.

That’s kind of scary for a former debate champion.

I was taught that facts should underlie arguments, that evidence should provide conclusions, that your response had to anticipate the rebuttal.
You should know, because bluffing only gets you so far.

But in some ways, I’ve been bluffing for a long time with shaky definitions of “fact” and “reason”.

And I don’t want to anymore.

I want to learn what I don’t know, rather than assuming I’m on track enough to keep the train from crashing.

I want to ask if I don’t know, rather than assuming I can generate the answers on my own.

Now the main conviction I have left is that none of us can afford to talk without listening anymore.

None of us can afford to be unaware of what other people believe.

None of us can afford to fear “the other side” so deeply that we shout into the divide.

None of us can know until we ask the questions, and wait for the answers.

I’m still as passionate as I ever was, and I still hand talk like I’m trying to whip up a hurricane. I still can’t back up everything I say with anything other than my gut. And I do trust my gut, don’t get me wrong.

But I’m learning to be as passionate about learning your story as I am about sharing my own.

And that results in silence sometimes.

And that? Is the kind of conviction I can live with.

I admit it.

I can’t make up my mind.

About a LOT of things.

Not just a couple things, because that would be easy… or at least it wouldn’t matter so much.

Because a couple indecisions? No problem. Unless, say, it involves nuclear war or skinny jeans: yes or no?

Those are not decisions you just don’t MAKE. There are clear moral directives at play.

Unlike with my hair.

Oh, my hair. SHUT UP ABOUT THE HAIR, MEG. Yet do I? No, I don’t. Because something in me still believes there’s something that can be done to render it… well, less like it is.

My latest thought is that perhaps… well, I will go blonde. Not REAL blonde, mind you, but some caramel and butterscotch highlights over a nice chocolate base.

Did you know my hair was a dessert?

Now you do. Check it out:

Yes, that’s right: I’m thinking hair colour will turn me into Jessica Alba.

(Imagine!)

No, no… I’m not. I’m just thinking of doing something sassy, bright, fun and DIFFERENT. Different from my die-hard, anti-highlight-because-why-do-they-cost-so-much-and-also-that-one-bad-experience brunette stickler ways. Something fun to fit a new era in my life, and an experiment that I can always dye out or grow out or sell to a young boy in exchange for his goat.

What?

But I can’t decide. Who thinks that much about hair colour (who isn’t being paid by a studio to make them shiny moving pictures)?

That’s right. Waffle Girl.

The same girl that can’t choose shoes.

I hate shopping for shoes. I loathe it. I mean, shoes themselves are nice, if not sore-making at their heights and puddle-soaked at their depths.

But who can possibly pick from the millions of possibilities… and who wants to pay approximately ONE MILLION BILLION DOLLARS for one decent pair?

Do I want boots? Uggs? Real or fake? Ballet flats? Real or fake?

(What the hell would a fake ballet flat entail? A copy of the Center Stage DVD?)

And I won’t even get started on my moronic indecision about the right running shoe. JUST BUY SOME AND GET MOVING, MISSY.

But I don’t. I fuss about pronation and supination and arch support and endurance soles and neat $300 shoes that make you feel like you’re running in the sand.

Because my first thought when I put on shoes is generally: do they feel like sand?

You too?

My final area of painful indecision is clothing.

(Yes, basically the appearance trifecta. Stop staring.)

I know what I like, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that choosing the right pieces — lasting, classic, elegant, prone to stretch over my ass in a flattering way and not like a Christos installation — is tough on a reasonable budget. Or an unreasonable one. Which mine might be to someone who spends more, but a veritable fortune if you spend less.

I’m a jeans/cute shirt/good shoe/nice handbag girl like, OH, EVERYONE ELSE, but there are so many variables at play.

So, instead of choosing, I just keep putting it off until I fritter all my money away on random $7 sale item t-shirts that fall apart in two washings. Sometimes when I’m wearing them!

If you asked me what looked good on you, I could tell you.

I’ve shopped for many of my friends, with great success.

When I’m standing back three feet, it just seems clear to me exactly what the right look should be, and exactly what it will take to get there.

I just can’t do it for me. And I know it’s bigger than money and too much selection and a moral objection to handing over my right leg for a cute pair of red heels (now that would be ironic, Alanis!)

It’s an essential discomfort with ME. With how I look. With how I move. With how people have seen me over the years and how that has made me feel.

Because I can’t solve those things quickly, I flop between this hairstyle or that and this jean or that and this peeptoe or that in the hope that I’ll magically became okay with myself along the way. That there’s a formula to crack. A balance to achieve with the externals that puts the internal at ease.

I know nothing in life actually happens that way, but it’s easy to distract yourself from reality with waffles.

And we all know what THEY do for the fit of your pants.

Sigh.

Pass the syrup.

That’s totally the face I’m making right now. I swear it. And here’s a haiku about that face:

squinty mcsquinter
stop fussing the way you do
think about bunnies

There. Now I feel better.

And onto the plans….!

1. I’m going to write a book. Err, publish a book? Make a book from things I’ve already written? Can you feel my absolute confidence in the project oozing from the screen? But, yes, I am. I’m deciding now on themes and expansion and how to spiderweb it all together into something coherent, thoughtful, buy-worthy and solid. Not just I MADE MY BLOG INTO A BOOK GET IT WHILE YOU CAN… because, hello, you can get it all online. Save for the posts I delete, of course, but you didn’t want those anyway, I promise.

   If you have theme ideas, posts you think should be included, or just a general YES, I WANT TO BUY IT! affirmation, speak now or… you know, speak later. I’m open.
   
   

2. I’m embarking on a life plan beginning next week, focusing on two major areas of my life: health and finance. Now, on the health side, I do have certain issues I won’t be able to conquer with even a super excellent plan, but I think there are lots of things I could do to increase my daily wellbeing. Increased fitness is one of those things, as much as the idea of increasing my output sounds rather UGH! to me this week.

   BUT! I would love some longer, leaner muscles… I would love to make my curves proportional to my wee frame within… I would love to feel more confident and energetic in my own skin. I think that’s worth the effort. To that end, I think I’m going to finally buy the new running shoes I’ve needed for a while (my current shoes pinch my feet) — maybe some MBT shoes? What do you think? Pretty much anything they are designed to remedy has been wrong with me at some point or other, physiologically (I’m hard on this bod!) I also am lugging my sorry ass back to the doctor to adjust a few elements of my treatment to get some better results… more rapid change. Other self care stuff? Drinking enough water. Stretching. Cutting down on coffee (OH MY GOSH!) And perhaps dressing according to my actual levels of sass, non? Yeah!

   As far as finance goes, I’m going to be a self-nazi, and nail down my saving goals for the next two years. Also? How I plan to find a sugar daddy. Ahem.

3. I’m going to aggressively seek out more freelance work. I think this is good for both my bankbook and my self-identity as a writer. Yes — I DID mean to sound fruity about that, thank you. But seriously… I know what I’m capable of. Time to haul ass and get published like a good girl… under my own name!

So. Ideas welcome, either in comments or via email. And of course, you can just say LOVE YOU! GO FOR IT! because I’m going to, so you might as well.

WOO!

So.

I’m a New England Patriots fan, as well as a Tom Brady fan.

(Yeah, yeah… I saw the game.)

This puts me in several categories, as far as the general public is concerned (as well as my friends and family):

1. Smart — Tom Brady is a legendary athlete and great leader, and the Pats are one of the best teams in NFL history

2. Bandwagonner – You’re just hanging onto the coattails of success (which isn’t true — fan for more than a decade)

3. Traitor to my gender — He’s a baby abandoner! He’s a supermodel dater! How could you! (despite the fact that OH YEAH I WASN’T THERE AND NEITHER WERE YOU. Do you know Bridget or Tom? Is it anyone’s business but theirs? Does it have ANYTHING to do with football… his actual job? Or hers as an actress? Yeah.)

4. Brady FanGirl — Is Tom Brady attractive? Yes. Is he a great athlete/leader? Yes. Do those two things have anything to do with one another? No. I’m thinking Randy Moss doesn’t catch the passes because Tom is a fine-looking man — he catches them because they’re accurate. And there are a hell of a lot of good-looking athletes out there I’ve never even thought twice about.

I get a little irritated at the same old “blah blah blah Patriots! blah blah blah Brady!” comments, not because people don’t have a right to their opinions, but because the stuff they pick on really doesn’t have anything to do WITH FOOTBALL.

It has to do with the fact that no one really likes “perfect.”

Even as I say that, I cringe, because there’s no way either the man or the team is perfect. As soon as someone scores on them, they cease to be technically “perfect” and just become really, really successful. And why? Because, generally — with the exception of a bizarrely lackluster performance last night — they do what it takes to win.

I don’t really know much else about Tom Brady beyond that. And I don’t want to.

I think I’m in the minority there, though.

And this is just one tiny example among millions.

For every person that loves to love on people who have lives that seem “ideal”, there are people hunting for the chink in the armor. For every person that wants their heroes to be “Teflon”, there’s someone looking to make things stick to them like glue.

We couch the need to punish the “perfect” (and yes, I’m still using that term facetiously) in things like “rooting for the underdog” and “taking the piss” and “cutting people down to size”, but does our response to their success (or fame or money or notoriety) say more about us than it does about them?

I think so.

It has to do with our own moral codes as applied to (our perception of) other people’s lives.

It has to do with prurient fascination with other peoples’ “dirty laundry.”

It has to do with frustration with our OWN experience… as in, why are they successful? I could do THAT.

And it extends past the Patriots to political candidates and pop stars and public figures of all kinds… pretty much anyone who does anything that extends them 15 minutes of fame or 15 bucks in royalties.

I’ve had a problem with celebrity gossip and our smug culture of cynicism and snark for a long time, even as I know that I’ve taken my fair share of potshots at my own little set of less-beloved celebrity figures (from Oprah to Joe Francis.) I’ve been convicted about that stuff lately, though… I mean, why am I obsessing about it? Am I just adding to the problem with my own purely opinion-based voice? Am I saying anything new or thoughtful or helpful to the culture around me?

Let me make this clear, too: it’s not that we can’t say anything at all about public figures. The mechanisms of fame are fascinating and worthy of discussion. Still, cultural analysis is one thing. Ethics is one thing. News is one thing.

But excoriation is another thing entirely.

There’s a difference between trying to understand the influence someone has on our culture and the nature of their success… and posting photos of them not wearing underwear. And we know which one gets more attention — which is why those photos exist.

The level to which the media — be it web or print or broadcast — has accelerated into covering these stories is extraordinary. There have always been gossip sheets and tabloids, but nothing like this. Obviously there’s a market, or they wouldn’t do it. After all, they exist to perpetuate their own role, and they’ve obviously found that the public will take as much as they can give.

And they’d have nothing to say without the publicists feeding them their information, relying on our fascination with muckracking and the lowest common denominator to keep their clients in the headlines. Why are we honoring their desire to hook us with absolute bullshit?

How much is going to be enough?

Is it “true” because someone printed it?

Why do we need to know the things we know?

Why does learning who someone sleeps with/fights with/hangs out with have anything to do with their talent or artistic/athletic/intellectual output?

Why are we buying in?

Why does someone owe me back the price of a movie ticket with a chunk of their private lives?

I’m just not cynical enough to think it’s a fully consensual relationship on all sides, either.

For every celebrity playing the game with a steady hand, there’s four more who are too addled to think for themselves, for reasons we shouldn’t perpetuate, even if they are responsible for creating the mess they’re in. For every savvy image-pusher, there’s an actor who just wants to act, or a singer who just wants to sing, or a guy who just wants to make the TD… and they can’t, because “that’s the price of fame” — even if there’s a huge difference between being known and being vilified.

And for every single one of them, there could be a family that hasn’t made that same deal with the devil.

Does it help a certain actor’s family to see speculation about his death splashed across every website and newspaper going? Does his daughter need to read all of that when she grows up someday, or is that a story her family and her family alone should tell her about her dad?

Does it help the children of people in the public eye to grow up with their parents’ private lives on display? Sure… their parents are responsible. Sure, they’ll get the inheritance when they crash and burn. But when you put down your money for it or click on the URL, you might as well be making their therapy appointments twenty years from now.

Does it make us more informed about the world when we read a story in OK! magazine that someone got paid a million dollars to share… and did everyone close to them make a choice to put their lives on display, too?

There are thousands of examples. People are dying to both stay and get out of the public eye as we speak, and neither situation seems worthy of support.

So what’s your problem with “perfect”?

What’s your “need to know”?

Why are you content with indulging the worst part of your human nature?

Why are people getting rich off of your hunger to latch onto the latest lies and rumours and tales — even richer than they’re getting off their actual jobs (if they have one)?

And what COULD you be learning about if you turned the volume down on the crap?

I don’t pretend to be immune to it all, or to be naive about the system that makes it work. I hear you telling me to chill out and “c’est la vie!”

I just wonder why it’s okay to shrug at the madness and let it shape the world around me.

I should be the one doing that.

And unless I figure out how to hear my own mind and heart above all the voices around me, I don’t stand much of a chance.