It had purple carpet, because Heidi liked pink and I liked purple. My bed had a soft comforter that was just two sheets sewn together with batting between, but I loved it and kept it through college. Lee Gebhardt wrote all over his chest with lipstick and spread eagle fell on it, so it was stained forever. He loved me, but I didn't love him because of that, plus he was a grade below me. I kept my typewriter in the closet. It had a satisfying click click click and bang when I typed. I'm sure the room smelled like White Rain, because that was the only hairspray I had late elementary into junior high. I'm sure it tasted like it too, because that stuff gets in your mouth. Heidi and I had some kind of speaker system we could use to talk back and forth. I kept it on my nightstand, and when we were supposed to be going to sleep, Heidi would crackle in with some nonsense and we would giggle until we got in trouble.
What is a compliment really? It is the external acknowledgment of something positive. It is praise. What does it mean? Is it meant to encourage? Express desire? Manipulate? We interpret compliments through our own lens. So what happens when the lens is broken? Clouded? Compliments become distorted. They blur. And this distortion makes them untrustworthy. And what do we do when something is untrustworthy? We dismiss it. We run from it. We counter it. We fight it. How do we give compliments when our receiving lens is broken? What do they mean? Are they self serving? Can they be trusted? Is my lens clear? Is my vision distorted? I know it is. What do I use to repair a lens? What is the barometer by which I calibrate my self worth? Scripture? But scripture interpreted by who? The hands that fed me scripture were the very hands that broke the lens. Maybe the answer is not to repair the broken lens. Maybe the answer is to replace the lens entirely. V
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