Sunday Confessional

I used to think I had to live a tortured life in order to be interesting. I welcomed catastrophe because catastrophe meant stories. In truth, this formula works. After years of self-inflicted disasters, I do have stories to tell. However, I'll never tell most of them. These narratives now represent a part of me that I'd rather keep to myself.

You've heard the advice before: never have regrets. Whoever came up with such bullshit?

It is natural, human, and right to regret. Without regret we cannot self-examine. Without self-examination we cannot change. Of course, we should not wallow in regret. Wallowing leads to chronic, blinding remorse. Chronic, blinding remorse leads to depression, and let's face it – depression is the most selfish of all maladies.

Thus I regret, wholly and unapologetically. I regret mistakes I've made in childish, narcissistic pursuit of a story to tell. I do not regret regretting.