On Bullshitting Yourself
by Michael Hoover
Kentucky Wesleyan College
by Michael Hoover
Kentucky Wesleyan College
Some days I’m either a little more or a little less me, conditioned on the amount of coffee I’ve had in the morning, what CD is playing in my car, and what the weather is like. It also can be a random sad song, or a sarcastic comment from a passerby that twists the day to night. Though in the end, we all pass each other by, and the sun sets. Being me is easier to sing about, than to write about; words are so much more permanent on paper. I try to avoid writing on a laptop, though I will admit Google Docs is incredibly handy.
It has to do with reinforcement, being encouraged by a colleague or discouraged as a teenager from being an artist. A lot of these encouragements and discouragements build up like plaque, and we have no way to change that. So, it becomes a personality trait. It’s like buying a pack of baseball cards and wondering what sort of trauma you got. Too bad, unlike playing cards, we cannot trade the trauma.
I was at this party in Montgomery, at a friend’s apartment off 85, casually drinking a margarita, when this girl, stumbling from side to side with pockets full of vodka, said “I only date men with interesting trauma.” I promptly laughed, as the room was starting to spin, but I asked her why.
“Well, I don’t want to be with someone who is boring.”
“What if they have an interesting job?”
“Nope.”
The way she sauntered confidently in circles behind the counter-top, led me to raise my eyebrow and join her, pouring myself the last of the wine I brought. I did not wish to bring the bottle back with a small reflecting pool of crimson in it.
“What even qualifies as ‘interesting trauma’?”
At this point, her eyes grew dark, like overused veins. Her lips quivered and I could taste her burning breath on my tongue.
“Well, normal trauma is a fucked-up family. Everyone’s family is fucked-up now. Everyone’s parents are divorced. Except like extreme physical abuse. Boring.” Then she pulled out an electric cigarette, took a hit, and offered it to me. I took a hit and she continued.
“Interesting trauma is like being in the foster system or religious cults.”
“So, like something out of a movie.”
She then took a shot of vodka and danced off across the room. I had my answer.
I didn’t know her, but I heard the words before. Not the exact same words but the same type of words. Meanings are more than the literature, it’s like Humphrey Bogart.
It seems almost antique to watch those movies: private detectives fighting crime, prospectors looking for gold, or fighting “bad guys” on a riverboat. It’s properly silly but full of meaning. Bogie digging at the dirt beneath his feet, practically clawing at the rocks around him as they glistened in the sun. Echoing through the hills, “Gold!” I see it all around me, as people are craving validation and fluttering around looking for attention or the appearance of being interesting.
They too, become corrupt, killing for it, albeit we have set aside our bullets for sharp words. Propagating fool’s gold, a growing sense that the bare minimum and bullshitting ourselves is acceptable.
The morning after the party, I found myself having breakfast at Cracker Barrel. I had worked at one before college, and, since then, have always known the menu like the lines on my palm. When the waitress, a middle-aged woman with a smile as heavy as mine, asked me for my order, I gave it to her like an actor reading lines. She came back with a black coffee and two half-and-half creamers. Peeling open the creamers and pouring them into my coffee, I reflected about what the girl said.
In that way, a lot of us are dependents. When I see the photographs of me, some ghost torn out of the past, I think, “Who the hell was that?” I see too many other smiles and eyes on that face. Not a total stranger, but someone you used to be. Dependent on the toxicity of those around him and himself. Complacent, but tired. I used to be embarrassed, but now I am more accepting of who I was. There were good times, but the negative times are so much stronger in the world these days.
To a large extent, we all bullshit ourselves. It varies depending on if we do it to better ourselves, or to reinforce the toxicity of ourselves or other people. I often think of the girl at the party, bullshitting herself into complacency. I also think of myself.
Starting out as a singer-songwriter, it was hard to overcome hurdles, which were often homegrown, to put on a good show or write music. At this one gig, I had only two songs that I wrote myself, and the rest were covers. It went as fine as it could, no boos but no applause of any magnitude. I was devastated, yet I had no desire to stop. I couldn’t stop. This growing feeling of not being good enough and needing to improve drove me forward.
At the next gig a month later, I only did one cover song, and the rest were originals. They were better received by the audience, but they were also better received by myself. I had spent hours writing lyrics on a legal pad, I told myself, “This is bullshit; do better.” I continue to tell myself that constantly. If we all told ourselves this, we’d be constantly evolving to better ourselves. An extreme being.
Just yesterday, I was asked if I’d help work on a song with a friend of mine. I don’t partner write, at least anymore, but they were a close friend, so I agreed. I sat with my guitar at my desk, playing with chord changes and ultimately feeling unsatisfied. “I don’t have anything to bring to the table,” I told myself. Then I pulled a switch in my brain. “No, you do.”
So, I started writing lyrics and deconstructing chords. I had two verses and a potential chorus written, as well as the chords for a bridge. I sent my friend the lyrics and a short recording of what I had done, and they sent the finished lyrics, and we had the song done. Of course, whether it sees the light of day doesn’t matter. We made art and, in the process, we grew out of it a little. Which is all we can do.
Bullshit ourselves and grow.
It has to do with reinforcement, being encouraged by a colleague or discouraged as a teenager from being an artist. A lot of these encouragements and discouragements build up like plaque, and we have no way to change that. So, it becomes a personality trait. It’s like buying a pack of baseball cards and wondering what sort of trauma you got. Too bad, unlike playing cards, we cannot trade the trauma.
I was at this party in Montgomery, at a friend’s apartment off 85, casually drinking a margarita, when this girl, stumbling from side to side with pockets full of vodka, said “I only date men with interesting trauma.” I promptly laughed, as the room was starting to spin, but I asked her why.
“Well, I don’t want to be with someone who is boring.”
“What if they have an interesting job?”
“Nope.”
The way she sauntered confidently in circles behind the counter-top, led me to raise my eyebrow and join her, pouring myself the last of the wine I brought. I did not wish to bring the bottle back with a small reflecting pool of crimson in it.
“What even qualifies as ‘interesting trauma’?”
At this point, her eyes grew dark, like overused veins. Her lips quivered and I could taste her burning breath on my tongue.
“Well, normal trauma is a fucked-up family. Everyone’s family is fucked-up now. Everyone’s parents are divorced. Except like extreme physical abuse. Boring.” Then she pulled out an electric cigarette, took a hit, and offered it to me. I took a hit and she continued.
“Interesting trauma is like being in the foster system or religious cults.”
“So, like something out of a movie.”
She then took a shot of vodka and danced off across the room. I had my answer.
I didn’t know her, but I heard the words before. Not the exact same words but the same type of words. Meanings are more than the literature, it’s like Humphrey Bogart.
It seems almost antique to watch those movies: private detectives fighting crime, prospectors looking for gold, or fighting “bad guys” on a riverboat. It’s properly silly but full of meaning. Bogie digging at the dirt beneath his feet, practically clawing at the rocks around him as they glistened in the sun. Echoing through the hills, “Gold!” I see it all around me, as people are craving validation and fluttering around looking for attention or the appearance of being interesting.
They too, become corrupt, killing for it, albeit we have set aside our bullets for sharp words. Propagating fool’s gold, a growing sense that the bare minimum and bullshitting ourselves is acceptable.
The morning after the party, I found myself having breakfast at Cracker Barrel. I had worked at one before college, and, since then, have always known the menu like the lines on my palm. When the waitress, a middle-aged woman with a smile as heavy as mine, asked me for my order, I gave it to her like an actor reading lines. She came back with a black coffee and two half-and-half creamers. Peeling open the creamers and pouring them into my coffee, I reflected about what the girl said.
In that way, a lot of us are dependents. When I see the photographs of me, some ghost torn out of the past, I think, “Who the hell was that?” I see too many other smiles and eyes on that face. Not a total stranger, but someone you used to be. Dependent on the toxicity of those around him and himself. Complacent, but tired. I used to be embarrassed, but now I am more accepting of who I was. There were good times, but the negative times are so much stronger in the world these days.
To a large extent, we all bullshit ourselves. It varies depending on if we do it to better ourselves, or to reinforce the toxicity of ourselves or other people. I often think of the girl at the party, bullshitting herself into complacency. I also think of myself.
Starting out as a singer-songwriter, it was hard to overcome hurdles, which were often homegrown, to put on a good show or write music. At this one gig, I had only two songs that I wrote myself, and the rest were covers. It went as fine as it could, no boos but no applause of any magnitude. I was devastated, yet I had no desire to stop. I couldn’t stop. This growing feeling of not being good enough and needing to improve drove me forward.
At the next gig a month later, I only did one cover song, and the rest were originals. They were better received by the audience, but they were also better received by myself. I had spent hours writing lyrics on a legal pad, I told myself, “This is bullshit; do better.” I continue to tell myself that constantly. If we all told ourselves this, we’d be constantly evolving to better ourselves. An extreme being.
Just yesterday, I was asked if I’d help work on a song with a friend of mine. I don’t partner write, at least anymore, but they were a close friend, so I agreed. I sat with my guitar at my desk, playing with chord changes and ultimately feeling unsatisfied. “I don’t have anything to bring to the table,” I told myself. Then I pulled a switch in my brain. “No, you do.”
So, I started writing lyrics and deconstructing chords. I had two verses and a potential chorus written, as well as the chords for a bridge. I sent my friend the lyrics and a short recording of what I had done, and they sent the finished lyrics, and we had the song done. Of course, whether it sees the light of day doesn’t matter. We made art and, in the process, we grew out of it a little. Which is all we can do.
Bullshit ourselves and grow.
Michael Hoover is a writer from Kentucky who is majoring in English and Political Science at Kentucky Wesleyan College. He has previously been published in the Verbatim Literary Journal.