The Fishbowl
What would it be like if I lived my life out in front of you? Posted my life like dooce.com?
Would you come to know me, my little nuances, would you love me or hate me?
How much courage does it take to live life like an open book, to say, here are my insides, my faults, my wishes. How does Gusgreeper survive? Can you tell that I am in awe?
I am raw. A bundle of nerves, sensitive underskin exposed to the world. You could destroy me with a breath. The saddest thing about the world is how we don't see the beauty standing right in front of us.
No. Scratch that.
The saddest thing is when you see the beauty but are unable to lead through example.
I grew up careful, and whether or not I led my life in over-reaction and unnecessary dramatization may or may not be up for debate. The point here is how I felt and what I learned. What I learned was that when you gave your secrets away you also gave away your power, your Achilles heel, wonderwoman's steel bracelets. People will use your deepest darkest secrets to crush you into insignificance and when they see their handi work, instead of being appalled and disgusted with the atrocities they are capable of, they will, instead, laugh.
They will brag in bars.
Boast to their friends, your friends, even your mothers.
They will make you feel guilty for being the victim and others will applaud them. Or condone them. In the end the difference will be hard to distinguish.
So I keep my secrets, and I keep my power, but then I read these confessional sites and I feel ashamed.
I should be strong enough to withstand exposure. I should either be proud of myself enough not to care, or I should be smart enough not to do those things which I might be ashamed of later.
I am tempted to call myself out for not being perfect, but then who is? No. Perfection is not my problem. Strength is.
_______________________
My mother calls me this morning and the first words out of her mouth are, "So is he still alive?"
Well, yes. But barely.
The Irish man lives. I hear the Irish are like rats. They survive anything and then go on to infect you with the plague.
Why in the fuck am I dating an Irish man anyway? Seriously. I made myself a promise, "Irish Need Not Apply."
I'm going to have that sign made up. I'm going to hang it on my front door. I told him he was in dog shit and I meant every word of it. Whatever. I know I'm mean. I don't really give a fuck.
Why are all my serious boyfriends Irish? There is something really really wrong with me that I should never admit to.
So last night he showed up with the obligatory flowers. Surprise flowers are nice, obligatory flowers make me want to slap people. Well, men bearing the 'sorry I'm an asshole but I hear flowers fix everything' gifts.
Flowers are stupid.
They get pollen everywhere and then they die. Stupid flowers messing up my house.
So when he showed up he was carrying flowers and a box. The box was interesting, but I was deeply suspicious of it. Like maybe it carried a small tiny midget who was preparing to spring out and tackle me. When he handed it to me I touched the edges of the box carefully and prepared to spring into defense just in case.
Inside were cat toys and a brand new blue sweatshirt for Izzy that read PUP on the back in college letters. I'm such a girl sometimes that I make myself gag, but I couldn't help it! Izzy did really look cute in it. And although I am against dog sweaters on cute factor alone, the fact is that Izzy gets cold. And shakes. And, I have literally, seen him snuggle into a sweater after I have slipped it over his fluffy little ears and zipped him up into it. So the cat toys that Izzy will eat later and the cats will ignore along with the sweater definitely earned him some bonus points.
Damn I'm easy.
The rest of the night was spent with me bossing him around.
"Take me here."
"Buy me coffee."
"Hold Izzy's leash."
I'm actually surprised that he didn't wave a white flag and catch a bus home, abandoning his own car in a fit of survival instinct.
In my own defense, the Irish Man is bossy. Extremely so. And normally I never give orders. Really, it was simply my turn at the helm, and much to his surprise, I didn't catch anything on fire.
Or kick him.
But I did wear my boots. He gives me a suspicious looking box, I wear boots. This, people, is how things work round here.
