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Friday, Jan. 23, 2004 / 6:30 p.m. ~Hard and Unfeeling?~ Maybe I need a third place to write online. I do want to be read, but I also want to be able to write what I want to write. I want to put it out there, I don't want to restrain myself, I don't want to censor. What people who read do not realize, still, after almost three years here, and over a year there, is that this isn't all of it. This still isn't me. You still have no idea. You think you have an idea, you think you know, but I leave so much out. I want to be able to write about how crazy it felt last night, how I have never in my life done that, not like that, not in that way, never, not ever... well... the only thing that comes remotely close was a party I went to when I was about 13 years old, maybe 14, and the portion of the evening where I went into the back room (was it a large closet?) with the guy I had the horrible crush on, and we made out. He tried to undo my pants, and I got scared. I was a virgin and afraid to lose that status. Maybe not just the status, but I was afraid. Not of him, of what would happen after. It's a story already, I feel that, it's something for a raconteur to relate over multiple glasses of wine, something red and dry, dinner with many courses. "I remember the time...", and the listener(s) raises eyebrows, one or the other, feigns shock, or maybe it's jealousy, maybe it's envy, maybe it's that other people wish they could lose restrictions and do what they feel for a change, for a night, to shake things up. Maybe inside we're all saying, "Shake, some action's what I need, let me bust out at full speed...", but so few of us actually bust. I've been sitting here for hours, toying with it, hinting and teasing and playing, and I'm getting the startled glances, I'm getting the shocked responses, and an awful lot of silence. I'm fine, it's the reactions that make me think twice, and thrice, what?, what what?, is it bad?, am I bad?, was it a bad thing?, I'm safe, it was crazy, he will pay now, I won't. Does this frustrate you? This is for me, remember? You just get to watch. Look. See? You don't have a clue, and this is how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to be a stranger, and I perform for you, I entertain you, then I tell you how I'm not here to entertain you. I say one thing and do another, and are my fingers crossed behind my back the whole time? Ever read a journal and find out it was all a lie? This is real, this is so real, but it's restrained still, and this is all unusual for me, I don't do this, that wasn't me, that was inner psyche, there must be a term for it, it was a portion, it was a non-thinking portion, but I regret nothing, and this is the breakthrough, though I said it last time too, this time I mean it. It meant nothing, and this is what is so great I want to shout it. I want to climb roofs (rooves?) to yell it out LOUD. I may be turning into someone I don't know, hard and unfeeling, but I like that. I like it. Cost of the War in Iraq
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