Post number forty-nine, Confession.

Tonight, a few honest assessments from my lifelong love/hate relationship with myself:

My college life wasn’t like the brochure filled with smiling, white teethed multicultural faces tossing a frisbee on the grassy common and being, well, collegiate. I wasn’t greek. I drank too much. I had friends, but not many that I keep in touch with.

I’m a lousy friend. I care for many people, but don’t reach out as often as I should.

I lie awake at night knowing I’ve hurt people I've cared about. I lie awake at night wishing that people hadn’t hurt me. I still manage to get eight full hours of sleep, thanks primarily to vigorous physical exercise and booze.

I am attracted to impossible people and situations. Given a long stretch of flat road, I will look for the first opportunity to veer off into the rocky hills. Love me, and I run. Show me disregard and I come running.

I assume too much. I assume that I know what people are thinking, and that people know what I am thinking.

In the office, detached from overly personal emotions, I am a dynamo. In fact, I am painfully shy.

I have a nice car. I have nice things. I have a nice, comfortable lifestyle that doesn’t really matter to the still, small voice in my head.

I spend too much time in my head.

I can draw. I can write. I can sing. I have gifts that I mostly ignore because I am afraid to really try. Not trying sucks.

I do not lie. But I rarely tell the truth when it matters.

I get by with faking it most of the time.

I hate pity, self or otherwise.

I am a work in progress.

I remain an optimist because there is no alternative.

I am in love.

Post number forty-eight, Bad Blogger.

Months have gone by. I've written nothing, but I've been here in spirit.

Since last writing, too much to summarize has happened---though nothing earth-shattering. Delicious details, lived, are hard to describe so far after they occur.

I'm sorry---to myself mostly, because inevitably some fun and memorable things are being consigned the the dustbin of memory by not recording them here. I can barely rememebr last week.

Tsk.

Anyway...a serious question for the ether:

What does it mean when the only thing more frustrating than someone's presence is their absence?