I cry a lot. I mean really a lot. I cry because something is sad, okay. I
also cry because something is funny. I cry when things seem sweet. I
cry for death, sure, or cruelty. But I also cry at weddings, I cry any
time children are singing, I cry reading metafilter threads. Bob Marley
would not have known what to do with me. It is almost ridiculous.
Lugubrious. I think I wasn't always this way;
in fact I was talking to one of my old friends, and he said he'd never
seen me cry. Never. But people who have known me more recently just sort
of
take it as a thing about me, like how I sneeze never once but at least
three times. You just have to hand me tissues and wait till it's
over in both cases. It's gotten to the point where I can cry for a solid
hour before anybody says "what's up" I mean it's like how you don't
bother to say "Gesundheit" until I'm done, because really, it's boring.

And I think, I like to think, that I feel everything intensely, that
this is just part of me. You had a fight with your friend and I am
defensive and wounded with you. You are hot in the summer sun and though
I am fine there is a trickle of sweat down my back, I'm sure. Your
delight and I'm smiling so hard my teeth itch. It's like somebody dialed
my empathy up to a point where it's so loud that all I can hear is all
this feeling.

And then other times it's like: you know what? I'm sitting here
alone, and it's raining outside finally, and I'm reading Tennessee
Williams, and I'm crying because I've actually lost my personal mind.
Which is also possible.

"But I had to do it. It's my nature," replied the scorpion.

Let's
talk about the frog in the story, who represents everybody who has
been gullible, who has trusted their heart in the face of facts to the
contrary, who has agreed to do something in the hopes it would turn out
well with the full knowledge it wouldn't; who represents, in short,
you. You gullible trusting agreeable idiot. That is what the story
tells us, that the frog kind of had it coming. So you kind of had it
coming, is what I want to say. This is not strictly speaking the same
as you asked for it but it has the same wah-wah-wah
condescension. And it is as unfair as I told you so always
is. The only person who takes pleasure in saying "I told you so" is an
asshole. And the thing about the frog is that whether or not it was
told is not important: The frog knew. You knew. You knew how it would
end. Pushing off the shore with your strong legs, balancing danger on
your back, you wanted to get to the other shore because it was asked of
you and you always want to try, but you knew you wouldn't succeed.

So
why did you do it? I
think this part gets lost. We think about the scorpion all slithery and
persuasive, but I don't think the frog fell for that. I think the
frog knew it could be an awfully big adventure. I think you said:
"Look, I will not make it to the other side with the scorpion on my
back. I may not make it to the other side all alone, either. If I have
the scorpion, at least the conversation will be stimulating. At least
we will have some fun. And there are rocks and scary bits, and I will
do better with a navigator. The scorpion will help keep me pointed in
the right direction; I mean that stinger has to be good for more than
just the one thing, right?" That's what you told yourself, isn't it.
You got all caught up in making the journey interesting and succeeded
in distracting yourself from the destination.

All I'm asking
from you is that when it happens, when the sting of it hurts more than
you can bear, that you not be crying as you resign yourself under the
water. That you not say, "How can this be? How did this happen?"
Because you did know. You knew full well. Keep the story your story;
it's the only way to get out of this with some froggish dignity. Admit
that you chose it. Admit that you had a good time. And keep your eyes
on the shore in case there's mugwort there, which they say is an
antidote for scorpion sting. As your precarious passenger slides from your
poisoned back, one more strong kick can get you where you need to go.
Stay calm, to slow your pulse. And remember it's okay to ask for help;
it's just not okay to ask helplessly.

You said what you were going to do and now you have to do it. Because
that was what you said; you gave your word. You said here is the line.
You said cross that line and this is what happens. It's what you said,
you all but shook on it. Shook hands to seal the deal and shook in your
shoes in case the punishment were insufficient deterrent. There is no
punishment available that does not hurt you, too. Or I guess not
punishment but consequence, newspeak. And it's your line. If you weren't
willing to risk this result then you shouldn't have drawn the line.
Dragged your toe across the sand, finger through wet concrete, a knife
across your heart. Here's where can't be crossed. And it was crossed,
double crossed, crossed your heart, the cross you bear, cross-eyed and
painless. Only, it kind of hurts. You said what you were going to do and
now you have to do it. You don't have to want to do it, but you have to
do it. The idea is, the theory is, the plan is that this will hurt you,
but not as much as seeing the line crossed again will hurt. You can
say, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Though you like to hope that
isn't true. You're doing this because you don't want to be hurt. And
because you said you would. Can I wait a week? Sure. You can wait two
weeks. A month. You can spend years ignoring the fact that the line was
crossed, that the line is crossed again and again. But there was a
reason you drew it, and no matter how smudged it gets from being
crossed, you remember that it was there. And every time it is crossed
and you do nothing, it's you who is crossing it now. And that is part of
why you drew the line: to clarify to yourself later when you would need
to act. And now you need to act. You said what you were going to do and
now you have to do it.