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Condescension, how I know thee


madelinetosh sock in Creme de Menthe

So I worried half the weekend about a lot of things. And yet I still had a wonderfully decadent weekend doing very, very little.

One of the things I worried upon is whether or not my last post comes across as condescending. You see, one of the things I'm really starting to be able to see in myself is that my snarky temperament comes across as condescending. The way I think and express myself does not comply to easy, modern social discourse.

Most people don't want as much information about things as I seem to feel the need to express on any host of topics. If there is something being discussed, and I am partaking in said discussion, I operate under the assumption a decided opinion on the matter is my obligation as a participant.

I know now that this is not true. Furthermore, I think the aforementioned belief is a byproduct of my previously unharnessed narcissism. Further furthermore, I am currently convinced that shame has been the byproduct of realizing my opinion/my contribution is unwanted.

Sometimes I cringe when I read the Austen quote in my blog's header. I think to myself who the fuck am I to compare my musings to the genius of Jane Austen. I can't help that this viewpoint exists in me and maybe in people who cruise through here misled by teh Google that there are scrap knitting suggestions here.

What I can work on is the cringing. I exist in a world that could give two shits about my opinion, my thought processes, my everyday struggles with being the happiest mofo there ever was. And I identify so completely with the snarky complaint about the diminutive product that results from all of my verbal and crafty striving. The quote is a mission statement housed in snark. I'm a micromanaging toiler of my inner psychological framework, as well as with basic knitting using artisanal yarn.

I feel Jane's pain.

DIC Classy in Shiny Moss