You realise later, but it's always a decision. Heaving your fat personality up from miserable self-loathing and selfishness to realise that that's not what you given people to expect. I've chosen to tear down a lot of the hoo-ha that separates personal from private. For a shallow example I know people my age who don't let their parents know they smoke cigarettes. I started this journey at the age of 17, telling my mom as a fact "I smoke, but I'm not asking permission [and not confessing]." I don't really believe in confession, but I believe in honesty. Confession provides too much consolation to the confessor, undeserved. People who keep secrets deserve shame and rejection. By secrets I mean things that people deserve to know taking their perspective into full account. "White lies" are usually called such to calm the beating hearts of people who don't want to ruin a good thing they've already fucked up.
All along the way I've attempted different "gives" of personality, of melding the 'who I am with my friends' with the 'who I am at home'/'with parent'/'with sibling'/'with roommate'/'with girl'/'with the elderly'/'with the young'/'with father' (....) and finally 'alone'.
It's a weird road, with definite obstacles and graduation. I made this blog public, my FLICKR public, my Facebook public, maybe one day I'll let people know where the bodies are.
(That's a joke, as much as I like Dexter I refuse to even kill bugs, especially spiders because they're hated on so much by the lesser sex,... or lesser of two evils....whatever.)
Women are like Kryptonite because they think they have power over stupid boyscout idiot super-douches. It's okay because they're 50 years behind the futility of the American Dream.
So I got the ix-nay on a kitten, but it's actually okay because now I have a dog named Dr. Zhivago who follows me around and presents toys for me to play with him with. If I don't play, he comes back with a different toy. He has lots of toys. I eventually give in. Every time.
He's SOOOOO cute.
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