Comedy about letting people think what they want because explaining myself is less entertaining than knowing I exist as a physical representation of whatever the hell the person I’m talking to is thinking about. … And I know it’s not me they see and are talking to … but I don’t care. I know who I am and my moral compass has a true North truer than ninetypercent of all people I have ever met.
(Below: found on the same page. No dates but I think the experience below activated the Schpeel above)
Story of me watching a movie and on screen a female nurse gives a young woman meds post abortion. The nurse is standing in her white uniform while the patient sits in the waiting room chair submitting. And I think of a girlfriend I sat with through her abortion and I think that all women have to function compassionately under the patriarchy together. And I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I briefly bury my head in my hands and sigh. Now I’m aware of the man beside me. He knows me and he shifts uncomfortably. He has accepted my reaction to the movie as proof of my own abortion.
And I’m left wondering if I should tell him the reason for my reaction to the film until I reaffirm to myself that he is not the man I share intimacy with. Though he is a friend. He does not see me. And in solidarity with all women on this planet I am totally okay with him thinking that I had an abortion at some point in my past, because, really, who gives a fuck?!