Bad stories

Tired from dinner with parents and their friend Bud who tells long and pointless stories.  It’s supposed to have a beginning, middle and an end, Bud, and a point.  You’re not supposed to just churn it out like a paper mill cranking out one endless roll of paper. 

I haven’t been here for a long time.  Got tired of hearing myself despair.  You probably did too.  Heh. 

I have a friend who always talks about the terrible things that have happened to her.  All the horrific injustice, the abuse, the rotten bad luck.  All the pain and the suffering.  She doesn’t make it up.  It’s real, very real.  But it’s so painful to listen to.  I understand now, what people mean when they complain about a person being "negative".  I don’t know what to do for her.  I give her sympathy, righteous indignation.  I want to give her permission to be angry.  Anger is more useful than hurt.  I don’t know what she needs. 

When I did that, I needed someone to be shocked, appalled, sympathetic.  To validate my suffering, to tell me it really wasn’t fair, that I was justified in feeling hurt.  Then, like a kid who’s had his bruised knee properly kissed better, I was okay, I didn’t need to tell tales of woe to seek sympathy anymore. 

When I was a kid, I was afraid to write short stories in writing class.  All my stories were too telling.  They all came out as bad stories.  I didn’t want my teachers or classmates to know what my issues were.  Maybe now, I should try writing stories again, but stories for me this time.  Maybe I’m the one who needs to listen to my too-revealing, loose-tongued tales.