I think it’s become obvious by now that I do all my writing at night. It works for some people. Unfortunately, everything that I’ve been writing recently has been the kind of drivel that you would expect from some random twenty-three year-old with an odd sense of entitlement mixed in with guilt, and a whole slew of other things. And I don’t like that. I hate sounding like this, albeit somewhat anonymously over the interwebz. But I’m still trying to learn how to write for myself again, and I think this drivel is all that crap that I need to get out of my system, simply because I’d been holding an internal dialogue for too long.
You know what I just fully understood the other day? Women are crazy. And I’m mean all of us. I always liked to think that I’m one of the few ones that is able to dial it down from the other nutjobs, or at least hide the crazy from the world. Unfortunately, I’ve realized that since I’ve been single (and surround by couples) for a really long time now, my crazy has manifested in different ways. So it turns out, I’m just as crazy as the rest of them, but mine seems like it’s not there because the guys aren’t looking for the right kind of crazy. I’m a unique kind of whack job. I feel so special.
Now I thought about writing about the crazy. But then I thought against it. When I was in my teens, I would write about every single inane thing that would happen in my life, every miniscule thought that would pass through my brain. Well, I was told on a few occasions that my writing was good and they enjoyed reading about those things, but when I looked back and read some of the things that I had written when I was fifteen or sixteen, all I feel is utter and complete humiliation. It is only our generation and the ones that came after it that flaunts ever so eagerly the stupidity that we posses in our hormonal teenage years over a platform as broad as the Internet. The baby boomers had it good.
Besides, I make it too easy for people to stalk me already as it is. Not that I’m saying that people do stalk me, but if ever anyone were to want to, searching my name would practically give them my life on a platter. Not good. Especially if I ever want to get employed or date someone respectable ever again. Or date at all, period.
But I will say one thing, though: if/when the time comes that I become serious with someone again, I’m going on total shut down. I am gonna hide the crazy for as long as I can. I used to believe that laying out all the crazy on the table was the best way to go, let him love the real you and all the crap. Yeah, well, next time I dole out the crazies is when I know for a fact that he loves me and that he’s stuck with me no matter what I do, for as long as I can help it.