Inner Turmoil

Dear Dorky Self,

There are so many selves trying to live within this Zube Girl, and I think we do a fine job of getting along most of the time. It seems, though, that you and I are most often at odds. I manage well with Intelligent Self, Political Self, and Clean Freak Self. It is you, though, that seems to squelch my ultra-coolness. It's really not fair.

For example, yesterday, Clusterfuck Self was out and about at the grocery store. Clusterfuck Self is annoying, and makes being cool difficult, but not impossible. So, Clusterfuck Self had Zube Girl at odds with another shopper. They were walking towards one another, and Zube Girl was having quite a time of stepping in the way of the other shopper. To the left, and to the right. Eventually, Zube Girl and the shopper stopped.

Enter stage right, you. Let me emphasize that you should allow me to do the talking in situations such as this, when coolness is at risk. I was about to have Zube Girl say something like, "No, you go ahead," and then beam one of her charming smiles, until you butted in with, "Wanna dance?" As if the person whose path Zube Girl's repeatedly stepped in is gonna think dancing even comes close to adequately defining the clusterfuck that just occurred! I mean, really.

I'm betting they don't wanna dance. They wanna shop, and they want Zube Girl the fuck out of their way. So, Dorky Self, please step back when things get a bit messy. I don't complain when you happen to be around in the morning, and have Zube Girl all thinking that she should wear that pink cookie monster t-shirt. Let me make it a bit easier for her almost 30-year-old ass to at least SOUND cool even though she's wearing such a display of abysmal taste.

I'll be petitioning Zube Girl for a stronghold on dialogue, but I'm sure it'll take a while with all of the appealing of god damn Political Self. But, until then I ask that you be seen and not heard. And seen, you know, as rarely as possible.

Really, We're all in this together,

Cool Self