Gossip

I contemplated writing some great essay on the morality of gossip--its complex aromas situating between malice, good fun, bald lies, and particularly the thrill that you are sharing tales that may return to their illustrious moron of a target. But that seemed more pretentious and heady than even me.

It all comes down, I suppose to Fucking Other People. Either the salacious rot is literally about some floozy shag and a half or it's about ruining someone, taking pleasure in another's unaware misery--or having a laugh at Thank The Christ we aren't as damned fools as the one we dare speak of.

I suppose I have failed at catching myself before the essay began. But I'll attempt--no demand--to be brief.

Nobody Gets Theirs. No--no one will get what's coming to them for their fabrications or (worse) blatant honesty. In fact we just go on, and if we learn of the stories our beloveds have said, we make a fuss and gossip on back to The One we think hasn't told the same story we've just heard. Because if we didn't, we would be too afraid to again connect with anyone--be it parchment or flesh. When wronged by the gossip we've heard about ourselves, we go on and spread it to someone else because Damn The Mouth that started it, but Bless The Ear who will hear our side. Oh, and what a bitch she was, you know; did you hear what she wore to the festival? Total tramp.

Eventually we--or perhaps just I--will forgive or forget (Never Both) the wronging party and move on with lives, perhaps with them again.

Because without the gossip, you'd never know anyone gave a damn about you.

and that almost is worth finding out for.