We're All Damaged

by Matthew Norman

Here’s the worst detail of all—worse than Wham! even, if you can believe it. It all happened at Applebee’s. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a snob. I don’t have a problem with Applebee’s per se. But I think we can all agree, as a civilized society, that lives shouldn’t change there. Significant things shouldn’t begin or end at Applebee’s. You shouldn’t walk into Applebee’s as one thing and then leave as something else entirely.

I wanted to look different. So I made myself look different—better than just fine. If you want to be something, you make a decision, and then you make it happen. It’s called personal responsibility.”

“I’m comfortable with who I am,” I say, which is a funny thing to say while shaming my own body in a full-length mirror.

I’ll remember this, what just happened, for a very long time. I’ll be on my own deathbed someday, replaying this in my head, wishing it had gone differently. We hold on to the shitty things the tightest, for some reason. And this is the shittiest thing ever.

I’ve given it some thought, and, seriously, there’s just no way Facebook can be good for you. I’m sure there have been studies, so this probably isn’t some brilliant revelation, but I’ll say it anyway. On the surface, it’s harmless enough, I guess. How bad can it really be with its endless baby posts, food pictures, and beachy foot selfies? But it’s not that simple. Mixed in with all of its silly bullshit, Facebook is the literal manifestation of all our regrets, looping and looping, for free, on our computers and phones. People who should be gone and safely out of our lives forever are there again, one cryptic little glimpse at a time, reminding us of all the things we should or shouldn’t have done.

And now, for some reason, I’m thinking of N.W.A. I think of the poster tacked up crooked, four hardcore motherfuckers who just don’t give a shit. Would they allow themselves to be this pathetic? No. Would they let themselves be this wounded by a girl? No way. And would they let some punk-ass pretend cop in a golf cart tell them what’s what in their own neighborhood? No motherfucking way.

She tells me that she can’t go to New York. She doesn’t tell me that she doesn’t want to go to New York or that she won’t go to New York. She tells me that she can’t. “Why?” I say. “I’m still in love with him. I think about him every minute of every day. And if I go to New York, he might not be able to find me if he comes back.” It might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. And I totally get it.