Weakness

People are only interesting when they're weak.

I love finding those weaknesses. I love asking the questions you don't want me to ask. I'm still surprised, every single time, that so many people will answer. I think it's an unspoken Jungian shared secret: we all want to confess our sins.

The Catholics should be happy. Seems they've gotten something right. Of course, it's something they share with all of the Freudian and post-Freudian psychoanalysts. Everyone is desperate to have their story told, but nobody knows how to do it.

It seems wrong to just shout it into the world. (Maybe that's why all of us writers are absolute cunts.) So you sit there waiting for somebody to be interested in that story. I think that's what most people take to be love. We all just want somebody to listen.

I like to be on both sides of it. I like to confess, but I also like to hear confessions. I like being the one people can tell their darkest secrets, their worst moments. Tell me about the bad things, tell me what scares you, show me your scars.

I'm drawn to weakness. Partially, this is a desire to make things better, to heal, to perfect. It's also morbid curiosity, something to make my fucked up life seem just ever so slightly better. Mostly, though, I think it's just how I connect to humanity.

We all have weaknesses, and we spend so much of our life trying to hide them. That's boring. I want to know you better than you know yourself. I want to find that tiny little memory that makes you look into nothing for a split second, rolling something around mindlessly in your hand, before you give a slight cough and carry on with your sentence. That's when you're human. That's when you're interesting. That's when you're weak.

So go on... tell me a story.

And Jonny... you can steal this now. I won't tell.