Driven

I will just put it out there like this: I really like conversations with people who make me feel like an imbecile. I don't enjoy them, that's not what I said; I like them. Because they are important. And I wish I could have three of them every day.

Because what happens when someone makes me realize, geez, I know so little about x, y, and z, I can't even express a coherent thought concerning the matter, let ALONE an interesting one, is I make darn sure that doesn't happen again. I start reading, hunting, fishing around in my mind, sorting my feelings out, getting the facts straight, and coming to some sort of conclusion. Even if it's just about a pudding flavor, I do the research. The shame is that I usually never have another conversation with that person on that subject x, y, and z, so they never see how much I have learned, and so my pride is never assuaged on that matter. They will probably go for the rest of their lives thinking, Boy, she knew so very, very little. And I HATE that. I want to be considered smart, capable, and well-informed by my peers, because guess what, the whimsical draw of having a favorite color of Bank lollipop, it only goes so far. When I am thirty-seven, people are not going to accept that from me anymore. I'd better be prepared.

It had never occurred to me, really, before tonight, that there is something wrong in having a huge, clumpy group of Big Ideas that are so broad in scope that nothing can be made of them. It's something that you'd better believe I am fixing starting right now, though.

I don't know how anyone has time for baseball games and friends.