Sincerity, ugh

Last night, my oldest said of his brother, "If he's not insulting someone, he's being ironic." Apparently, I'm raising kind of a bad person. Actually, I'm not surprised. He was born bad, that middle one. It's possible he gets it from me. The irony, anyway. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's sincerity. When one of my Facebook friends writes an "I love my husband SO much..." post, David and I use it to play the "is she fucking around on him, or is he fucking around on her?" game.

People expressing their emotions. Being open. Genuine. I don't trust it.

Does that sound strange for a poet? I mean we think of poets as being the great conduits of emotion, don't we? I don't know. Sometimes I think poets are just people who require a great deal of artifice in order to process their feelings. I mean my husband doesn't need that. He just has feelings and sometimes he says what they are. I, on the other hand, need like complicated meter and white space. In person, my husband can be lovely and sweet and say genuinely kind things. I can pull off something along the lines of "Someday when you're dead I might be a little bit sad, especially on trash day."

I'm being honest when I say that I would not want to be married to me.  I think it would be a fucking nightmare.