The Fundamental Attribution Error-Regette blames her luck on her personality

Just In case I've forgot who I am:

Define yourself- challenge accepted.

Do so in one word? Well…


(I hate to be a downer but...you know what a jump break means...)

Figurative:

Know yourself could be synonymous with define yourself. But is “knowing” yourself even possible? I can bedazzle you with alliteration, repetition, and parallel structure; but am I defining myself? Am I merely throwing around words that sound pretty and say nothing, obscuring the lack of substance, leaving the world no closer to knowing what I am?


Regette is wanting you to read this. Regette is needing you to like this. These statements are horrible and ugly and so is Regette. Regette is truth-- mundane, everyday truth, the insignificant grain of ocean floor lodged in the oysters gut. Even covered in opalescent lacquer, Regette is still that grain of sand, never the pearl.

Telling the truth is knowing what I am and owning up to all the unpleasantness. I’m manipulative. I attempt to actively lead conversations like a lawyer leads a witness on the stand. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I pull the strings of the marionette and think the puppet “simple.” I overestimate my own intelligence, even when faced with overwhelming proof that I’m not as smart as I think I am. If I catch on-- if I realize that maybe, perhaps, someone is smarter--I am jealous. I want that intelligence and I also want the car, the house, the looks, the boyfriend. I would prefer that no one was better than me. I’m cruel. I say hurtful things and I mean every word. I have hurtful thoughts and I mean those too. If I see a stranger I judge them immediately, “I don’t like her.” I’m not prejudiced, I hate everyone-- especially pretty people and especially pretty couples, for they have beauty and they have love. I’m bitter. I rain on everyone’s parade. I actively torment my rat bastard like baiting a bear in the circus. Why should he be happy? Why should anyone? I’m guilty. I’m guilty of all the aforementioned. I remedy my faults with chastising thoughts, with good deeds. I cry. I apologize. I say hundreds of compliments and gratitudes to cancel out my bad karma and I mean every one.

The truth is mostly guilt and happiness. It is happiness in the acceptance of friends and strangers, in the smiles a kind word evokes.

The truth is guilt over the one thing I’ve said and can never take back. Words on my soul more permanent than any scarlet letter; words that baptismal waters can not erase. So I tell the truth and I ask her, ask you, ask them, ask myself, ask God--manipulatively, jealously, cruelly, bitterly--for forgiveness.

(And that’s the truth.)

Your melodramatic butterfly,
Regette