A meditation on assholery

I'm a decent person. Not a great one, but a decent one. But I'm also kind of an asshole. I admit it. There’s something honest about this admission, and there’s something dishonest and assholish about it, too. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking how wonderful I am for admitting that I’m an asshole. I’m thinking that makes me better than you, whoever you are. I may be an asshole, but I’m an asshole who can admit he’s an asshole--a better kind of an asshole. What about you? I thought so. You’re just an ordinary asshole. I’m better.

I know I’m an asshole because I know all the bad, stupid, malicious, vengeful, thoughtless, spiteful, uncaring things I’ve done. I don’t go around telling people about them, for God’s sake! I may be an asshole, but I’m not a stupid asshole.

I am also an egotistical asshole. If I were a modest asshole I’d admit my assholery to myself and go about the business of making myself less of an asshole. Instead, I’m writing what I hope will be a charming and amusing blog post about how what an asshole I am. Maybe that way I can get away with it.

Or not. I hope I’m not writing this just to get away with it. I hope I’m writing this to get some of my personal assholery out of my system. And I hope that I’m writing it to make it easier for other assholes who might realize that they are assholes to admit it to themselves and maybe even others. But who knows? I’ve discovered, over the course of a lifetime, that I have an outstanding ability to deny, explain, justify, and make excuses for my own behavior. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that I’m kidding myself.

But maybe my ability to mislead and fool myself isn’t outstanding. Maybe I’m just average. I don’t really know. And it doesn’t matter. No matter how good I think I am--even at bad things like self-delusion, I’m probably not that good. And no matter how bad I might think I am, I'm probably worse. I almost certainly overvalue the good things that I've done and I undervalue the harm. Such is being human. Or at least that’s what I tell myself to help me live with that knowledge.

It must be true that the better you know me the more you know of the bad things I’ve done. It’s not just because I’ve done more bad things to you or in your presence, but also because I have probably shared with you (very carefully) some of my more disreputable acts. I’ve shared a lot with Bobbi. She knows me better than anyone but me and knows more bad things about me than anyone but me. And still, it seems that she loves me. I’m a lucky guy.

Over the course of my life, I’ve become good at forgiving myself. After all, you can only go so far with denial and self-justification. But I do live with myself and I think that's because I have learned how to forgive myself for the worst things I've done. Or at least the worst things that I'm not currently in denial about.

I think that the ability to forgive is a virtue, and to be forgiven is a great gift. When I listen to the song “It's quiet uptown” from the soundtrack of “Hamilton” and the chorus sings “Forgiveness! Can you imagine? Forgiveness!” I reliably burst into tears. I can imagine forgiveness. I've experienced it because I have forgiven myself. I’ve learned to forgive others. I’ve done it selfishly--to justify forgiving myself. How can I not forgive them, when I’ve done worse? But I’ve also done it because--well, I don’t know. I’ve done it.

Why do I cry when I hear that song? Maybe it’s because something big remains unforgiven. Maybe it’s because the song reminds me that forgiveness is possible, and a gift, and I have received that gift, even though I am undeserving. Maybe it’s because I like telling stories that prove how sensitive I am because it makes it look like I’m less of an asshole. I really don’t know. How could I possibly know? I’ve already said it. I’m just an asshole.