I hate to think of the shit you could talk about me.
It’s inevitable, I guess. You have enough friends to do that. I don’t, but that’s another matter altogether. I’ve done you wrong, that’s obvious when you know the whole story, only that’s a story no one will ever know, unless.
Maybe I’ll just start here.
You’ve talked shit to me about others in the past. It was all a part of the package, to listen and be listened to. Neither of us judged the other for it, outwardly, at least. Now I’m not so sure you weren’t judging me for the shit I talked, while I wasn’t judging you. Now that I accept I am no different than the rest of the shit-talked pack.
So I’ll put an end to it, for both of us.
I won’t do shit that gets talked, not to you, anyway. That way, the only way my shit gets talked is if it gets made up. And you’d ever make shit up just to talk it.
Well, I’ll just have to take that risk. The one you take when you give someone nothing to talk about, and the only shit left to talk is about how you give no shit.
I guess they call that an argument from silence.
So I’ll be keeping my shit to myself from here on. You can wonder. You can ask. I won’t be hiding anything from you, because that would require lying. And although I’m a good liar, I won’t lie to you. Because once you know I’ve lied, you’ll talk shit about it. And you can still talk shit about others to me. I won’t judge. Because that’ll give you shit to talk about when I’m not sharing any of mine.
Because I hate to think of the shit you could talk about me.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday