Why Do I Do So Many Stupid Things?

I was a dirty football player. I held. I cut blocked knees. I crotch blocked. I tripped defenders. I would do anything to keep the guy from tackling my running back, anything. I made a defender so mad in high school he started beating my helmet. I did not get mad; I just kept holding.

Sometimes you just have to win. It does not matter how.

There is good writing, and there is bad writing. I read ML's story. All I could say was, "wow." (It can be cleaned up a little, but the ideas come through so smoothly. She reminded me of Joyce's Portrait Of An Artist As A Young Man. I could not understand that book in high school, but I understood ML. Now I want to try Joyce again.)

I have never written anything that good. I have never written anything close to that good.

It depressed me. I tried to convince myself that I had just never written anything that pretty. I tried to convince myself I was not a positive writer. I tried to convince myself my rawness was my strength.

I cannot lie to myself. Just like when I was playing football, I was compensating for my lack of talent. Her story is better. But this fact says nothing about my worth as a human being. I can still bench press more than she can.

I am tired of compensating and pretending. I am a raw guy. I think.

Now, like in the split second when I decided to hold, I have to act. There are too few tomorrows. You never know when tripping makes the difference between winning and losing.

Sometimes you have to win.