The skeletons in my closet are actually quite visible if you’re around me a lot. My flaw is identifying other people’s flaws in my head and then sometimes repeating them out loud in front of the person. Oops.
(Sometimes I don’t.)
I’m perfectly aware I have flaws and could identify them to you at a drop of a hat, but then I’d overdo it and annoy you and that’s another flaw.
(But my dark secrets are well-hidden and never leave the closet.)
A secret is only a secret if no one even knows you have one.
When you start itching, you’re either allergic to your thoughts or commitment. I have accepted my nun existence and my cat can catch moles now so I won’t need a sugar daddy anyway.
(My ADD mind spits out things I can’t predict.)
I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time and can’t imagine life with anyone else.
(Somehow the secret slips out.)
Every Halloween I don’t need a costume. I just show up as myself and that’s scary enough.
Broken nails and red lines
Stray balls and unintentional cleavage
Cold feet that cause stomachaches
Vision that doesn’t completely focus
Words that come out wrong for no reason
Pop music and unkempt hair
How many times have I told you your worth is not measured by how flawless your skin looks or how symmetrical your face is? Yet a myriad of thoughts and questions run through your mind every time someone is looking at you while speaking. Perhaps the same thoughts and questions are a nuisance to the person facing you. Perhaps not.
Chances are they are questioning themselves on their appearance. If they are, you have nothing to worry about. If they are not, more power to them. But who are we kidding? Of course they are worried about your perception of them. So why do you still feel self-conscious? Do I need to slap your face every time you think like this? Is that it? Do you need aversion therapy?
Pull yourself together! Or maybe I need to bring out a cat o’ nine tails. That’ll learn you.
One week later…
How many times do I have to tell you to stop worrying about what you look like?
But you know I do because inside this terrarium everything’s shallow.
I have to watch what I say. I have to watch what I eat. I have to watch how I act.
I’m getting tired of watching, but my insecurities and fears won’t let me stop.
Today I watched a man on stage play his guitar for possibly the last time in his life. He’s about to get hand surgery and no one knows if he’ll still be able to play the guitar after the procedure. Then I thought about my hands. What would I do if I could never write again?
I think that man was very brave going on stage—no words, just strummed strings. It’s like that gun pointed at your head demanding a response. Will he ever play again? Then I wondered how many women his hand had played the way he played his guitar. I tried silently reprimanding my thoughts for even coming up with this idea, but they wouldn’t listen because that’s just me.
Maybe the only woman his hand ever played with was his wife.
Maybe it reminded me of Holden Caulfield (you are my best friend if you know what part of the book I’m talking about).
Afterwards, I went to feed Belly (that’s my car in case you don’t know) and gave her a quick wash with my hand. It was warm and comfortable under the sun, a nice respite from the October cold and I never appreciated a functioning hand more than this.
It’s been a minute since I last made a YouTube video, but I didn’t want to leave out my third and last BTR review from my first set. I’m not sure if I’m going to make this into a tradition of some sort and keep making BTR videos or I’m just going to review books as I read them. We shall see. But as usual, I stuck to my crazy writer talking self and just let my raw ramble loose.
Last night as I drove home in the rain, I thought of Conceited Crusade. I had to tell somebody and the only somebodies I could think of was everybody, so naturally I had to post.