![I Believe… [Too Much Absence]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/579fa3912994ca0eff850271/1730684696431-9LG56F84KEH4VEPSQ13U/IMG_2287+2.JPG)
I was Trying to Write Something About the New Year but I Wrote Whatever This is Instead
I think about writing, “I think about writing nothing ever again, because what’s the point in it,” but that isn’t true; I never actually thought that, it’s just a thing that enters my head as something I could write. It’s the sort of thing someone might think, probably. Not this someone, though — no, probably, I’m too convinced of my own worthiness as a writer to ever consider simply not writing. What would be the point in that?
On Wanting More
Call me greedy. Call me a hedonist. You’re not wrong. I am who I am, and I’m not ashamed of it. I’ll never be an ascetic. I’m hella attached to worldly pleasures, and to the world. I suppose I’m probably lucky that I’m not inclined to addiction — but there are too many things I want more of to focus all of my energies on just one substance or one sensation.
On Writers and Saints
I’m not a perfect person. I make no claims of sainthood. Here, if you like, is a litany of some of my faults: I’m an arrogant, know-it-all bitch. I’m stubborn, often to a fault. I hold people to extremely high standards. I’m inclined to fits of pettiness, and I tend to hold grudges basically forever. Despite having spent years preaching to my students constantly about how there’s no shame in needing help, I’m lousy at asking for it for myself. I don’t have much interest in privacy. I will brook almost no opposition to my right to do as I fucking well please.
On Forgiveness (Or Lack Thereof)
My boyfriend cheated on me with one of my closest friends. A year later, I’m still in a relationship with him, and I'm still trying to find my way to forgiveness.