On Something Like a Blog Post

Fred

It sits in the corner like a friend you didn’t invite over but you felt obligated to invite in, even after explaining that you were in the middle of something.

Something important, yes, that’s right.

You are checking your e-mail while the water boils.  Neither is very important.  Your friend sits in the corner, in the darkened corner, in the easy chair in the shadowed corner and waits.  Your friend stares at you – you can feel it like a hand on your shoulder – though when you turn to look, your friend snatches his or her attention from somewhere else as though he or she wasn’t paying attention to you the entire time.

We’ll say he.

It’s true that you have no excuse for the way you behave toward your friend.  You were the one who befriended him, after all.  And you did so for all the right reasons.

It wasn’t because he was attractive or charming or intelligent or liked the same movies as you or made you laugh or got your jokes or had the time to invest or shared classes or was interesting, either innately or because of his profession.  Now, you befriended him because you got along.

And now, after a few weeks or six months or a several years, you realize that that isn’t enough.

The question is: How do you say goodbye?

And, Fred, I’m not talking about you.

I’m talking about blog posts.

And, Fred, you are something like a blog post.

But I’m not talking about you.  Let me try again.

I’m sitting at my desk checking my e-mail when I realize my shoe is sticking to the floor.  I must’ve stepped in something, right?

So I lift my foot and find a person there.  I stepped in person.  Right under my shoe is a face, and it’s your face, Fred, and I can either take off my shoe and scrape you off so that you’re your own person again, or I can put my foot back down and answer this really important e-mail about what I’ve going to be having for lunch tomorrow.

Damn.

I’m sorry, Fred.  This blog post was about you.

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