I haven’t spoken to my brother in months. No amount of “Benghazi” or “but her emails” can quell this anger that I feel towards what he did. Not when every day I see threats to my livelihood, my liberty, and the lives of my loved ones.
I know I need to get past it. I just haven’t figured out how yet.
I’ve spent a lot of time over the last two years or so trying to decide what my masculinity feels like, what it is. Marc Maron’s is one I appreciate and can wear like a costume, but it isn’t mine.
This is in no way a criticism of it, but an observation. One that I find more and more interesting as he gets older (well, and as I do too) and it both softens in some ways and sharpens in others.
He’s still my favorite comedian. I still hear his voice in my head sometimes when I’m about to go off on a rant about something (sometimes asking me if that’s really what I want to do and other times giving me a “Yeah! Get ’em!”). But I’m just not destined to be Marc Maron when I grow up.
And that’s okay.