let me be confused

I’m walking around, and I overhear the words floating in a conversation,

“They’re confused.”

In my head, I know I’m supposed to vehemently deny such ignorance.

“No, they’re not!  You’re confused!”

Except they rarely are, if I am quite honest.

Misogynists, racists, idiots.  Somehow, they’re never confused.  No matter how long, rambling, and nonsensical their thoughts and arguments.  They appear to confuse themselves, but they don’t.  My mind boggles in bewilderment at the mental sleight of hand.  By the time they reach the end of their sentence, they’ve often forgotten the beginning of said sentence.  Which means they end up contradicting themselves in the same breath.  But even that fails to confuse them in the slightest.  Onward, they plow with implausible (and unqualified) confidence.

Me, on the other hand?  I’m confused constantly.  Confused at how people can let these things happen!  Confused at any number of things.  If someone asked/accused me of being confused, I’d simply say, “Yes.”  I’m certainly confused about something at that moment.

When I was younger, I thought I should know.

Or that someone would tell me.   They just kept coming up with more genders, sexualities, labels, questions, concerns.  It wasn’t like zodiac signs.  You didn’t get one assigned based on the Moon’s position.

I’m pleased that my youngest is equally confused and changing her mind about her own sexuality on a monthly basis.  She’s not really sure yet, but that’s okay.  If I’ve got time, so does she.

I, like many, am a confused, hot mess.

I don’t know that many things, but what I know, I know.  You know?

But maybe it’s okay to be confused.

At least, that’s what I’m going with for now.


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