So I thought I was doing really well in a workout tonight, and it turns out I was all hunched over like the Eggman. And I got some coaching and I thought I corrected the problem, but apparently I didn't. And now I feel like a complete fool. Cuz my defensive little attempt at humor didn't go over, and it was just offensive. It's so hard to get it right, strike a balance between emotional security on the one hand, and social grace on the other. And all of my humor is ironic, always a comment on some unspoken and underlying truth. The loudmouth I play at is a reaction to the morons I had to be around as a child -- the out-of-control egos of borderline sadists. Such is the grist for my humor mill. Not funny? Well, sometimes.
So I actually have a friend, the best I've ever had, and I love him somewhere between a brother and a son. Perhaps you know how much I love my son. As for brothers, well, my genetic brothers are just people I grew up with, share some DNA with, some experiences, but as for love, I think that puppy got stomped to death sometime in the late 1960s. But I know what it should be. And tonight I was rude to my friend, defensive-humor rude, but nevertheless. And conscience torments me.
What a world. How can these things ever be put right? Well, we have to understand, about our flaws. You know, wisdom. And then grace. It will never be, and never can be, perfect. So accept me, please, for my flaws, deep as the sea. I'm not beautiful, not pure, but there's something in me that even I -- raised to hate himself like poison and corruption -- can respect. Maybe you'll do me a favor and give it a name, if you know me well enough. If not you, who?