This week, my dipshitty guru of a twin sister got three letters in a row asking, basically, “How needy is too needy?” She even tried to read some of them out loud to me while I was cutting my toenails into her shag carpet, and it really squatted on my mood’s face. (I also felt sorry for her, because she doesn’t get the weird, smart, witty letters I get as Ask Molly because she’s boring and nice and I’m a delightful asshole.) She kept saying, “See how people are hurting? Everyone is so callous and so busy these days!” which is an irritating thing she does whenever she feels a feeling about something: She declares it a cultural trend immediately. Whatever keeps the groundsman in rubber boots, I guess.
When I was younger, like pretty much every young human alive, I was needy and I was also extremely fucking defensive about how needy I was. These two things tend to go hand in hand, and seriously, young people are all exactly the same this way. (Get over yourselves already, chumpies. Read a book for fuck’s sake.) Then, as I got slightly older, I started getting more proactive about my neediness, at Polly’s behest. “Neediness is good, it’s just vulnerability!” I would say, ruining the dinner party. “People should be MORE vulnerable and lean on each other more!” Tedious. I’m sure that stage was necessary, but some of my friends fielding teary phone calls probably didn’t think so at the time. Then for a while after that, I felt strongly that an open dialogue about exactly how much emotional vulnerability was…
I’m boring myself just talking about this. And sometimes, when this stuff bores you? That’s a good sign. Because that’s just how it feels to fucking exist and ask for what you want without constantly wondering how much or how little wanting is just the right amount. I don’t calibrate my shit anymore. I don’t make careful adjustments. I do exactly what the fuck I like.
People seem to like me a whole fuck load more than they did when I was obsessed with whether or not I was fucking up or whether or not I was too much. (Yes, I do pay SOME attention, I’m not a robot.) Polly used to go around saying, “I fuck up! I’m too much! I’m a dumpster fire, hear me roar!” but Jesus, if you need to announce that shit preemptively, what is going on with you? What about just existing without explaining yourself?
But all of this is just a preamble to this essay by Sarah Miller (@sarahlovescali on Twitter) which is conflicted and hilarious and captures a lot of my feelings about being confused and needy and a complete self-involved piece of shit perfectly. I’ve never done Al Anon but I probably should’ve lived there from ages 20 to 30 at least. I like Sarah, she’s a little evil. She’ll take that personally because she’s not perfectly healthy yet.
But none of us are, stupid. Simmer down and mind your own shit. And send me a mean or funny or weird or short or stupid letter: askmolly at protonmail dot com. I love all of you cunts already!