The Book of Selfishness

"Think of someone else for a change," my mother said. Her voice trembled...was it simply weakness, or was she afraid of my reaction?

I hadn't called in months. I felt bad about it, but I was sick of the routine. I'd call every week or two, she'd tell me who died and which of the cousins were doing wonderfully. I'd tell her that I still hadn't found work, and she'd make a few lame suggestions (why don't you call that cousin who made you feel like a fat nerd all through childhood, he's head of security at some casino...I'm sure he could get you a job). An hour or so of reinforcement to the knowledge that my parents were getting older, sicker, and more out of touch...with the real world, for one thing, but more importantly with me. They'd known only surface details since I was a kid. Whose fault is that, though? Distant, private me, selfish me.

I'm sure my parents were worried, and I can understand that. My brother's suicide, of course, is always at the back of everyone's mind, just as it has been for nearly three decades now. Was it even a suicide? Doesn't really matter...because she's probably thinking that it's exactly what I'm in danger of, and she's probably more or less right. We're not a happy family. But so far I've resisted the urge to end my life, because I know how much it would wreck her life, my father's life, my wife's life...three people already riddled by the death of loved ones, already half-crazy with the longterm complications of loss. I stay, because to go would be selfish...and I resent having to stay, because I am selfish.

I wish I really was as selfish as everyone (including myself at times) believes...if I'd been dedicated to my own desires all my life, I might have avoided this constant course of mediocre compromise that ends up pleasing no one. I could have lived for myself, or lived for others, and either way would have turned out better....maybe. Good old hindsight...with me, it's not 20/20 but 50/50...six of one and half a dozen of the other...man, the cliché's just keep piling up, don't they?

Well, I've known for a long time that when you're silent, people decide what they want to believe about you...and when you're talkative, they misunderstand. That's just the way it is. It'd be nice to meet someone with insight, but how would I recognize it? I'd probably just confuse it with what I wanted to hear about myself anyway...

Who the fuck would want to read this crap? There I go again, trying to think for everyone else. Mitigating my selfishness with the objective view. If I wasn't so selfish, I'd actually write something that people might want to read. If I was selfish, I'd just keep writing and not worry about such things.

Anger. Resentment. Oh boy, if you thought I was being selfish before, you can't even imagine what it would be like if I really did dedicate myself to my own desires. However, I'm smart enough to know that it wouldn't end up making me happy...unlike now, of course...

And around and around we go. Where it stops, nobody knows...well, I can guess, anyway. I'll just be borderline miserable for another decade or two before nature or accident does what I've been unselfish enough not to do for myself all these years. Meanwhile, I'll pass the time by writing self-indulgent mediocre crap like this that does nobody any good.

Sounds like a plan. Enjoy, nobody!