(no subject)

[sugarcoatdsour]

So this is for me to just write.  My problem with blogs is I always want to just write, and I want people to have the ability to read it.  This doesn't seem like a problem, I realize, but the problem occurs when what I write isn't just fictional.  It's when it becomes biographical that I have the problem, which again wouldn't be a problem at all, were my audience simply strangers.  I crave anonymity, but my life is an open blog.  When you introduce friends or family, lovers or simply acquaintances into the mix, they start to get worried.  They ask too many questions, they delve too deeply into matters that don't and shouldn't concern them.  My other problem with these things is that while they may be factual, they're often fabricated or exaggerated.  I'm not looking for attention, mind you, I'm simply spilling the contents of my overfull mind.  Some times events become more than they were or become super symbolic of things completely unrelated, be it metaphorical or literal.  My last problem with these things is that I'm learning people themselves fabricate these.  They infer things that shouldn't be inferred, just as I fabricate things that probably shouldn't be fabricated.  Only this is for myself, and I know the truth.  Only I hold the key to the memories.  So if you're one of those people who is going to make something up about something I said (say, invent a story I supposedly told you about lost jewelery) please, go away now.  Not that you'd be deterred by my request, anyways.  I just feel the need to try.  Or maybe it's best to retain my identity.  Perhaps I should reinvent myself or perhaps I should invent myself anew.  Create a new me, a new persona, a new likeness.  A new mind.  I have no lover and she hasn't the prettiest eyes, after all.  But this is jumbled and convoluted.  This is all in vain.  You'll pick and choose details to focus in on, and I'll continue to defend my honesty (even though this is all the musings of a melodramatic adolescent, trying to find their way through life and lust) and we can both pretend what we want.  This is the internet after all.  You can be whoever you want to be.  You can be schizophrenic as Jack Kerouac and it's completely acceptable.  Sybil ain't got nothing on me, kid.  Just you wait and find out.

...but then again, this could all be a lie, right?

I've got a secret and I think it's worth keeping this time.
But this is livejournal, the only place on the internet you can be completely yourself, right?
Maybe I'll crack under the pressure, as I so normally do.
Maybe I'll bend and break and let slip one personal detail too many.
But this game of question-answer is over, and you may have won the last round, but I'll come out on top in the finals.
I'll be the fucking champion and win this game of life.  Because that's all this really is, right?  A game.

G-A-M-E.

And I've got nothing left to lose.