Voices around me, and those inside my head, have been giving me a hard time lately. I keep hearing that I’m too nice, a pushover, that it’s pure comedy to watch me attempt to be stern, and a lot more little jewels that have been pounding on my brain like driving rain on a garbage can lid.
I have never, ever considered myself too nice, which may be why I try extra hard to make sure I’m not rude. I realize now, that my attempts to not be a sarcastic bitch may have turned me into a pile of mushy applesauce. But I wasn’t always like this, I’m sure of it.
I remember myself as an incredibly sarcastic, too smart for my own good little girl, growing up in a family where everyone seemed grown up but me. And my family never missed an opportunity to employ the sacred art of sarcasm with pride when perhaps maybe a softer gentler word would have sufficed. I won’t point fingers except to say that I learned from the best, and took pride in being an obnoxious adolescent. In fact, it was my sense of sarcasm that prompted my fifth grade teacher to assign me many, many essays meant for me to reflect on my loud, inappropriate, utterances during class. It didn’t quite work, as he seemed to enjoy my essays so much that he would hand them back with his own sarcastic commentary written in the margins. Instead of squelching my firey temperament, he lit the fuse for an explosion of what I considered one more way to express my disdain for, well, everything. I emulated the kind of silly chatter that I heard around me and felt obligated to match in kind. Despite getting in trouble at home and at school I thought I was one hot shit of a ten year old.