Having been on the receiving end of some especially doofus-y hate mail this a.m. (was there a “be a whiny, entitled jackass” week planned while we were gone or something? In the past two days everybody I’ve interacted with in meatspace has seen fit to complain about some way in which I’m disappointing them) Iappreciate this all the more:
I tell people about your anniversary,
I tell you about unknown people doing wonderful things for other unknown people.
I end up in your scrapbook and on your refrigerator.
I print the quirky, the unusual, the heartwarming, the sad, the happy, the inspiring, the surprising, the awesome and the trivial – all of the goulash that makes up life.
At dawn, I am in a car somewhere on my way to talk to someone who just saved a life.
At midnight, I am on the way to a fire.
Sometimes I like to do the unexpected. Like this.
I do not expect to be liked, admired or trusted. So when you do, it means more.
You do not expect me to be likable, admirable or trustworthy. So when I am, it means more.
I tell what I have to tell about you, despite your importance, what position you hold or how much influence you have.
I tell what I have to tell about you even if you are nobody, do not hold any position or have any influence at all.
I could have done something else with my life and escaped your blame for things that go wrong.
But, no, I could have done nothing else with my life. This is what I’ve always wanted.
I am a journalist.
I tell stories.
You read them.
It’s as simple as that.
And as complex.