Unhinged

With the doors on our secrets closed, locked, what does anyone know about the people around them? We all have reasons for keeping our secrets. Because we would open ourselves to ridicule, for the most part, but there are other reasons as well. Maybe we prefer the image that the lie gives.

Sometimes the secrets are puked on the floor in the middle of a crowded room, with nothing to do but observe the varied expressions of horror on the faces surrounding us. While standing amid the crowd, ankle deep in vomit and life heading down a road that wasn't on the well-marked map... what response? Keep that plastic smile on your face; the one showing an inch of gum and your tongue pressed against your upper teeth, like you're wearing a retainer? Take a new photo that looks as good as the old one? Photoshop out the vomit, in a lovely background and sell the new photo to your friends as a trip to the Bahamas?

Or... set out to obliterate that road and all the roads you've ever known, all the while fabricating, nay, confabulating reasons the loony-toon behavior is fully justified?

Do you take your gun and drive in circles for hours, adding a measure of crazy, as each second ticks loudly by? Do you sit at the end of a road, staring at a curtained window, wanting, plotting to obliterate its existence? Do you stand in a parking lot, kicking, hitting, biting, paint-covered key in hand, imploring your focus to come closer, screaming like a lunatic at an innocent child? Oh, it's alright. She isn't your child. Cling to the justification as you may, it won't help in court.

When you pass the mirror, do you catch a glimpse of this new you? Do you like what you see? Do you even notice the change?

Not secret anymore, how do you re-hinge this unhinged lid and put the crazy back in the box? Can you? You have to ask yourself if the crazy wasn't just under a perfunctory lock and key, like the one found on a child's diary; Always there, rattling the flimsy little lock.

I have seen and believed, appearances meant everything... What then happens when a bully can't control the appearance anymore? I wonder now, if once the pretense is dropped, the unhinging is permanent.

je vous ai dit cette chienne est folle

Words

Words are...

They are just words. You can say, say, say anything. You can say anything you want. But it doesn't mean that you've said anything. They are just words.

Fractured

Welcome to 2011! This year has so much in store for me, it couldn't wait to smack me in the ankle with the first installment.

Spiral fracture of the right fibula. Well, I guess it really is the off-season.

Bring it 2011! I got a little something for you too!

I want more information

I have often said that you shouldn't ask the question if you don't want the answer. This is along the lines of, "Does this make my butt look big?" If you are asking the question, go back in your room and change. It does make your butt look big and you already know it. Maybe when you form the question, you should or do already know the answer, but you need confirmation. Wouldn't it be better to answer the question for yourself? I mean, as far as your ass looking big... do you really want to plant that seed? If you are lucky, it only lives in your mind right now; once you ask the question, it will live in someone else's mind as well. Of course, this doesn't apply to everything, but in matters of the heart, and fashion, you should assume you know the answer and it isn't the one you really want to hear.

Here we come to information and technology. I struggle with this age of information technology. On one hand, I absolutely love technology and have been involved with it, in one way or another, since I was a child. On the other hand... there is so much available information out there.

When you learn new things, when you know things that would have been better left unknown, or you know things you weren't meant to know, you can pretend all you want that those things don't exist, but you can't un-know them. Your mind will factor in all the new information and make it impossible for you to see things the way you did before knowing. Your brain doesn't allow you to have amnesia at will. You will try to move past, but you'll come back and the information will give you a fresh pain.

We have arrived at one of the best and worst technology possibilities: Information availability. In earlier days, if you didn't want someone to know something, you just didn't tell them. Now, if you want to keep a secret, you need to change your name.

The Intolerable

I was thinking about the people that consider themselves "so liberal" and "super tolerant", but how their tolerance only extends to what they find tolerable. Brings to mind the bible thumping type that preaches on and on about charity and forgiveness, but then happily points out every possible flaw and "un-christian" behavior in an exceptionally intolerant way.

Me? I am struggling with being "The Intolerable."

I recognize that my personality is abrasive to some (maybe all). I realize that I have my own way of doing things; That I am an odd mixture of feminine and masculine and have little room for super drama and don't care for it. But, I have a host of friends who are really feminine, sweet, funny and enjoyable in ways that I tend not to be. I thought they were my friends. Finding out that I'm not acceptable, I'm intolerable to these girls, the ones that were constantly telling me to be more accepting and tolerant, reminds me so much of my family; the same irritating attributes that they all have. They constantly preach social liberality, but not at home. "Everything is acceptable, well... except for you." I struggle with this and I'm trying to find a way to reconcile it.

I'm struggling... people don't really change. Personalities are pretty static. So, what I tolerated in my "friends", wasn't going to change in their personalities and I knew it wasn't going to change. I recognized that I needed to accept their idiosyncrasies. What is different about mine that they fall in the unacceptable category. I need an explanation. Or perhaps, I just need to accept it and move on, in true liberal fashion.

Old Skin

I often wonder if we are really adults. Are we, or are we just kids in these adult bodies, still haunted by the same things that bothered us as children, better able to cover it, but still hurt by it?

Are we any sharper, any smarter? Or are we simply able to hide it better? Same tears, same tantrums, same likes, jealousies, just clothed in older skin with a better expression? We aren't adults. We are just kids, in different bodies.