It’s Like She Stole My Life

by Kyla

My friend Blake was so, uh, moved by my recent blog posts and facebook statuses along the lines of “I dunno how I do all the stuff that I do … except for vacuuming, sweeping, paper-writing, and fruit-eating, ’cause me no do those things” that he sent me the following link:

Frankly, I found it horrifying. It was as though someone had stolen my life, except stolen a version of my life that was funnier and involved far cuter pictures than the one in which I actually live. So, in lieu of doing my dishes, studying for exams, vacuuming, or cleaning the bathroom, I poked around a little bit and found this recent post,, which frankly, and I say this with no little regret, could also have been pillaged from my own life.

In my other writing life – I do actually have another writing life, one in which I write about things that are not (necessarily) related to being a student – I try to write about things that are tough. I basically fear that Thoreau was right and “the mass of (humans) lead lives of quiet desperation,” and I also fear we’re all so busy comparing our insides with other peoples outsides that we assume we are the only ones. Let me explain. Most of the time, I certainly assume you all are just having a glorious time: you know, you’re madly in love with your partners, undoubtedly having lots of terribly satisfying sex, you’re never lonely, you have enough money, and if you’re a parent you’re a great one, and you don’t feel even the slightest amount of horror when you look in the mirror, and you’re generally proud of yourselves, and content, if not outright delighted, with the lives that you lead. But then, sometimes, when talking to someone there will be suddenly that faint scratch upon the surface, and I see then that all is not well on the insides, not always, not at this moment – and that is what I try to capture when I write. I write, in my other life, mostly just to say you are not alone. I have to do it in writing, because most of the time I find I can’t just lean over, touch the other person on the arm, and say, I saw that. I know. So I write it out instead, and I offer up my own insides, so that other people can see them exposed and know that in this way, at least, they are not alone.

I don’t know if it always works the way I do it. It works profoundly, even painfully, well in these Hyperbole and a Half posts.

I saw that. I know. You are not alone.