Dangerous Compassions

how to accept a compliment

Lately being complimented, it’s pretty exhausting, in person at least.  Hearing the praise, taking it in, feeling my reaction, trying not to be rude to anyone. 

They give the compliment with love, but mostly I feel I don’t deserve it, or there are whole aspects of the situation they’re not understanding.  I want to accept the compliment for what it is, but I see all this context and usually feel I deserve zero of the compliment.

But I don’t have the energy to explain all that–I’m busy doing something else.  I’m supposed to react right, performing gratefulness, but I don’t like being expected to feel a thing I don’t feel.  I’m supposed to be happy, but not too happy!  Hahahahaha!

Maybe I should get a shirt that says “compliment-free zone.”  Or we could have designated compliment moments, where I’m psyched out for it.

Then sometimes the person comments that I didn’t react right.  They’re misreading my wrong reaction, and it feels way too complicated.  To try to correct that, to try to change my performance.

I did nothing good.  Or I did something good, but it was a tiny thing you don’t really know about.  Praise Ming, please.  If I did anything helpful, it’s because he held my hand while I cried about it for an hour.

Also, Ming is good at compliments because he’s a socially reasonable person.  He doesn’t get too changed by that stuff.  He doesn’t get all weird inside.  Oh, to be a healthy social animal.

We copied a new zine yesterday–I forgot our copyshop moved.  It was really dark.  Tons of cars of people getting off work, all those headlights.  They close at 6pm, and we showed up around 5:20. 

I saw Bagel Mania, and I said, “Bagel Mania!  That’s the kind of mania I want!”

Then we were talking about the sketchness of the parking lot, saying how Einsteins closes at 3, and how silly that is.

“Who stops wanting bagels at 3?  That’s when I want bagels the most!” I said.  Three is a special time for me, the height of the afternoon lull.

Then we went to Mt Everest where I stepped over empty liquor bottles in the parking lot, which is also sketch.  Ming and I talked about Hansel and Gretel, for some reason, the chicken bone to trick the low vision witch.  The whole idea of fattening someone up, and pushing a witch in the oven.  Gender in that story, like is it the boy in the cage or the girl, and who is the witch pusher.

I told Ming how it was important to me to have that horrible story, as a kid.  “A little horror can go a long way,” I said.  Who was telling me that could happen to me, if I went into the forest?  Yeah, I wasn’t supposed to go in the forest, but I went anyway.

We picked up art today from our friend K for the fundraiser ancestor zine.  Here is the new poetry zine, complete with diatoms, which I decided are ok.  I’m binding it in blue for the coldness.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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