For Christina

I wrote a post this week about how much I hated myself, but I didn't publish it because I am a chicken shit and also, you might worry that I'm about to aim my car toward the nearest cliff.

As it turns out, a kindred spirit wrote something kind of similar, and she posted it with an explanation of why she self-edits.

It reminded me that I'd been looking for a poem that pretty much sums up my daily paranoia, and which I first discovered via Ann Lamott's book, "Bird by Bird," which my lovely and talented friend suggested that I read some nine odd years ago. It is by Phillip Lopate.

We who are

your closest friends

feel the time

has come to tell you

that every Thursday

we have been meeting

as a group,

to devise ways

to keep you

in perpetual uncertainty

frustration

discontent and

torture

by neither loving you

as much as you want

nor cutting you adrift.

Your analyst is

in on it,

plus your boyfriend

and your ex-husband;

and we have pledged

to disappoint you

as long as you need us.

In announcing our

association

we realize we have

placed in your hands

a possible antidote

against uncertainty

indeed against ourselves.

But since our Thursday nights

have brought us

to a community

of purpose

rare in itself

with your as

the natural center,

we feel hopeful you

will continue to make unreasonable

demands for affection

if not as a consequence

of your disastrous personality

then for the good of the collective.