Or I would be, if I retained more than about 10% of that. But I read it all.
Of course, there were certain people I retained a good deal more from. Thanks for the surprise, mayden_dor. I did need that.
Today, though, has been interesting. A couple of ups and downs. You know, someone once asked me if I was bipolar. At the time, I figured he was wondering if both my feet and my head were cold at the same time.
Now, I just laugh at the suggestion. I'm about as normal as the next person.
Over the past week, it's been pointed out that my openness will get me into more trouble as time goes on. It's already led to some loss of some important things, drawn complaints, and seriously affected friendships. It's a frightful thing when plain honesty can get you into deeper shit than you can find on any farm, especially when all you're doing is trying to work shit out that's confusing you to no end.
But I realized something about the gossip that I want to have about me: I don't want any of it to come from my own mouth. I don't care what people think I've done, who they think I've done it to, or how dirty they think it was. I will, in fact, encourage you to make up stories as I always have. I simply don't want to lead them onto the conclusion through outright offering of that information.
Take those shadowpuppets, for instance: that night is one of my fondest memories, but damn if it's anyone's business what happened. Now, if you want to make up a story, feel free. I even hope to hear about it! You just aren't getting any information from me.
So some people will find things off-limits with me. I don't mind what you make up in your own mind, but I won't be party to some of it. This isn't really a change: some things have always been off limits. But it's a conscious effort for the first time in a long time. If I don't make this effort, I'm going to lose more than I already have.
(i.e. expect more cryptic posts that can't be guessed at.)
I think that the real issue is not at all that I'm worried about myself, but about the others who get hurt in the process.
And if you think I'm growing up, let me put that to rest: fuck that. If this looks like "growing up," then I'm afraid I'm going to have to call a spade a spade and tell you that you're just jaded. I'm just playing a new game, one which none of you get to know the rules to yet. I'm dropping parts that are now useless and re-emerging with parts that are useful. I will not be told that I'm "gaining wisdom with age" or any useless shit like that. It's been insinuated in the past, and I do not believe that age has anything to do with anything in the real world. Does it in my head, or your head? Sure. But the brightest stars are still in the flush of their youth. I'm not so much "young" anymore, and haven't ever thought of myself as young. Hell, I've always thought of myself as me, and I have to seriously think to figure out how old I am. The young always know their age. If you don't believe me, ask a three year old.
There's a deep anger, I suppose, in this post. I'm not sure what brought it on, but it appeared as I was writing it. I was smiling when I started, and now I have a pounding in my chest that isn't at all comfortable. I did something last week out of spite. I did another out of love. They don't balance out, and I'm not sure they were meant to. It was the first time I'd done anything out of conscious spite, and it made me feel rather sick about it. . . but I did it anyway.
I wonder who I have to get permission to post my Walking With Fire review to my LJ from? I'm reading Where is Joe Merchant?, a book I took to Austria to hand off to fred_smith; I'll need to send it now, when I finish it. I'm terribly worried about a very close friend. I've written an article for OL and sent it in. I have to call Psyche, or maybe stop by her shop. I'm afraid to check my bank balance because I know what I'll find there: it'll start with a dash, and I can't handle that well. I'm angry with myself for not having trouble with my baggage when my travel partner did. I'm incredibly happy that none of this actually matters. I can feel depression tugging (I've felt it before), and I'm confident that I'll escape it this time, as I have many times before. I wish I knew the name of that girl in Paris, and I know I will if she writes me. I need to finish cleaning up my tickets for work. I need to fill out paperwork for missing extra days. I miss Tina. I'm happy without her. I don't know who I can trust, yet I know perfectly well who I can. I absolutely require the book Wind, Sand and Stars, a title I've often quoted, but never read the work it heads. I want to play a game of dominos. No, I want to win a game of dominos, one on which I've bet $346.32. I need to find someone who can make me a silver knife (smithing_chick?). I also need a revolver.
Han Solo and Princess Leia stand side by side on my keyboard, and that gives me some real, solid hope.
Now, it's time for home and bed. I'm beat. Or maybe I'll watch The Empire Strikes Back tonight. There's someone I just want to be close to.