The thing that’s hard to miss about me is that I have an incredible gift for encouragement. I have been derided by both employees and prospective love interests as a hard-ass slave-driving bully with a heinous tendency to shame my subjects toward some goal they have set (usually with my unequivocal support).
Au contraire. I’m a teaser and an autocrat with obnoxiously unachievable expectations who lords over people the nightmares of their most dreaded deliverables with a haughty laugh and a flip of my nonexistent shoulder-length hair as I explain, “I’m just encouraging you.” Just ask Peggy Smith*, one of my childhood playmates, about how I “encouraged” her to play Kimba the White Lion at whatever stupid summer daycare house we both attended when I was about six. I’m pretty sure she reached THAT goal, and others, including the one of sitting mute in a psych ward, endlessly staring at the penny that had somehow gotten glazed into the terrazzo on the floor at the foot of her bed.
So yeah. Not heinous. Just encouraging.
*This is not her real name–what am I, CRAZY? Come on. I don’t use the real names of people I write about here. Unless they are dead now, then I use their real names. And some of them are. Dead, that is. But don’t even think about digging up my back yard because I had nothing to do with any sudden or prolonged disappearance of people I was once acquainted with.