I’m not sure what it is that a person is supposed to be embarrassed about anymore. Which makes it sound like I knew once. For instance, it seems like one of many ping-ponging internet debates that recurs with some regularity revolves around explaining the intricate shames of “guilty pleasures” (usually ‘pop’ songs that are supposed to be cultural equivalent of toilet water, ubiquitous and more or less necessary given the current state of living [where there are toilets, obvs, which, uh, why did I pick this metaphor]). But of course then the response is always, “Whoa there, guilty pleasure person, you should just own that joy. Opinions won’t make you live forever. Don’t be guilty.”
And it’s true. Opinions won’t make you live forever. Except if you’re, like, any of the many people throughout human history who are now memorialized in statue form basically because they had boss opinions about shit. It happens. Just remember that you can’t organize your day around the possibility that will someday be a statue.
Anyway, a respectable lit journal that I like published a teensy little footnote of a poem that I wrote, and I didn’t link to it last week because I felt embarrassed for some reason and here it is.