WHY I DON'T WRITE ABOUT MYSELF (part one)

I’ve written a lot about how I don’t write about myself in stories. I had several reasons (excuses) for that, but the reason (excuse) I stated originally is that I had written about the origins, future, present of my navel to death, and I no longer wanted to deal with it. But then I started this blog, and I have to admit there were times when I was short on material, and kind of needed something to write about, so borrowed some realities from my reality, and hence ended up writing about my life … somewhat. I have to say that I still don’t promise anything I write is the truth, but as I stated in earlier blogs, it will always be true.

Every time I write it’s a little bit of me on a piece of paper that I allow people to judge. I allow anyone who reads it to react, relate, evaluate, tear apart, love, hate, or just be indifferent to it. It’s actually not a good feeling, even when someone loves what I write, because it’s often for reasons unintended so it still feels like I did it wrong. It’s me, but me naked, and even though I know my flaws, I still suck in my gut (which you need to know for this analogy, I don’t need to do, I’m actually in pretty good shape), clench up my ass, stand straight up, and pull on my penis a little so that it’s not hard, but not completely flaccid either (that I’ll do on the sly though). And when people are disgusted by the three moles on my stomach (which I think are kind of sexy), or my hairy legs, it hurts a little, and that’s too bad for me.

I learned something about myself this weekend. I flew down to Los Angeles to see some friends, one of which I consider my best friend, and instead of spending a great deal of time hanging out with him throwing back some Bass Ale (which he so thoughtfully stocked), and discussing pretty much nothing, I ended up at some amusement park with another friend, the people from his work, and another one of my best friends (who saved me because I would have died there without her). The evening felt awkward, because to be honest, I’m a bit too old for loud music that serves as background noise for teenagers escaping the confines of their homes so they could make out with their girlfriends and sneak wine coolers, gang bangers who are walking a tightrope between jail, prison and this amusement park, and long lines that aimlessly wind around nothing in order to get into something you would never have waited in line for if you knew what it was going to be for. I’m also a bit too old to do things I don’t want to do because I have this undying need to be liked and accepted.

And as I was waiting in line for another lame attraction I realized something about myself, and why I didn’t like to write about my life. I’m kind of a mess and I don’t want people to know that. I wrote in one blog that I end up spending minutes with people I should be spending hours with, and hours with people I should be spending minutes with. I thought about this, and I realized that the reason I did this was the people I spend hours with, I seem to want to win over, and the people I spend minutes with I already have. And where did I get the impression that I had too win anyone over, and for that matter, where did I get the impression that my life was about winning people. That instead of my life being a body of work that encompassed my soul, I was looking for a way to reflect my soul in the distorted mirrors of people who didn’t care enough about me to recognize my inherent overwhelming need to give more than I get … to understand in absence of their understanding … to believe in people based more on my gut than my brain.

And the reason I don’t write about my life and who I am I think is because I care about the opinions of people who don’t know me enough to form that opinion. To be continued …

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