Well. So I'm addicted. Yes, I said fewer posts this week, yes, I said in-laws are in town, yes, screw my last message. I'm back, I'm black, and I'm...oh, wait. I'm not black, am I? Oh dear.
Surprisingly to me, I have really gotten into writing in this journal the past month, and I feel a bit sad about letting it stay dormant, even for a few days. I am not sure why. Those of you who know me well know that I'm not the most emotionally open dude in the northwest quadrant of Henrico County, and I had a working theory that all the writing I've done this month about feelings and personality and mushy, mushy bits has been a bit of a release for me. I had pooped out my emotive blockage, let us say. But then I went back and read my posts and I see that there are about one-and-a-half messages that could even potentially qualify as that sort of emancipation. Even the post that supposedly was about my emotions -- the Matthew-makes-passes-at-girls-who-wear-glasses entry -- was more of a red herring than anything else; that's barely a paint chip on a subject I could have gone into much, much, oh so much more depth on. (In the metaphor, you would have needed to call Maaco afterward.) So that's not it.
(And no, I have no intention of being any more open in this arena. None. You want to know who my tenth grade crush was? Tough. You want to know how I feel about having children? Your loss. You want to know the things I do not particularly like about myself? As my Dad as Mr. Taboo says, "Yeah, right.")
(To be clear, though: There are certain people that I would tell the answers to some of these questions to in a less public forum. [And a few people already know the answers to some of these questions, natch.] For example, if you could not possibly put a face to the name of my tenth grade crush -- and some of you might be close -- you do not get to know; if you can't, what do I care? [At this point, I'll tell anyone about fourth through ninth, regardless, even if (somehow, since I haven't seen any of them in at least nine years) the crushee asked; strangely, I have no qualms about that.] And other people get other confessions, and if you all got together you would have a lovely picture of me that I would probably not want to set my eyes upon, and so on and so forth.)
(Did I have a point? No, no: I see that I didn't.)
Anyway, so I wonder, what is that reason I've written so much? I have three working theories, one of which I don't like because it makes me look ...well, I won't tell you how it makes me look, other than an austere "eh." Maybe I'll post them later; maybe I won't. But I'd be happy to hear your theories.
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Andrew: I'll respond to everything tomorrow. Promise.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
i sincerely do not know what you are doing here. are you lost? were you
looking for your delicate calico cat, and did you follow her up two flights of stairs
to this room? she is not here. she was here, yes. we gave her a warm bowl of milk, we talked with her about campaign finance reform for a time, and then she bid us good day. i believe she was
going to the post office two blocks down, but i don't quite recall.
for surely you did
not find your way from prinsiana, the least traveled site on
the internet. if you did, though, perhaps you are looking for humor. perhaps you are looking for profundity. perhaps you are looking for answers.
i'm sorry, but you shall go naught-for-three.
