It’s hard for me to love other people. It’s even harder for me to love myself.
I was driving home from work Monday evening and I had just angrily hung up the phone. A woman had called me from a company that did some work at my house a few years ago. I didn’t like the way the company was handling its business with me, but it was nothing personal with the woman.
The thing that annoyed me wasn’t her fault. She was just reading a script. She was doing her job. But I was in a bad mood — and I took out my frustrations on her.
I wasn’t nasty or rude, but I certainly wasn’t kind or loving.
As I drove the rest of the way down I-459 toward home, I stewed in my irritation, but my annoyance quickly turned toward myself. I wasn’t upset with that woman or her company.
I lectured myself about being a hypocrite. I berated myself about my unwillingness to live up to my values when it wasn’t convenient — when I wasn’t in the right mood.

Until I can have the family I need, I’ll spend my Thanksgiving alone
When love finally dies, it’s like a fever breaks and the pain is gone
This is my private confessional; the truths I write often scare me
I don’t know how to be popular, and that hurts in a social world
My show isn’t very good yet, but my goal is to be a professional
I used to ponder who I really am; today I just ask who I am for now
Let others be wrong if they want; it’s not your job to fix their errors