You're the whole reason I keep the pack of the magnums

I wrote a long long long piece of something about the so-named glass ceiling with the point being that women perpetuate it, not men. I wrote a whole lot of words about censorship, then felt like a hypocrite. I wrote more about myself and then felt like the egotistical whore that I am...so pictures it will be.

There have to be reasons for my insecurities, my anxieties...all of those things that make me the person I am but prevent me from being the person I'd like to be. I get the feeling that people don't believe me when I tell them I'm upset, angry, or sad because they maintain the perception that my life is laid out simply before me, as if I'm not allowed the luxury of pain or discomfort. Being slightly more conscious and aware than most people and deformity free somehow removes my right to be anything but content.

Most of my life I've dealt with people discounting me and I'd always attributed that to jealousy. I think it's deeper than that though, as if people on the inside pray for my failure. Constantly feeling the need to prove them wrong is exhausting.

Right now my mind is filled with endless oddities, unoriginal probably but mine none the less. The way I choose to live, it is exhausting. I'm afraid that in the mix of things, somebody might find the real me. The one that is very unlike each of the other lives I've created to appease the various groups of people that float in and out of my little story. It's all very beautiful and poetic and if I'd ever had a gift with words, it might make a peculiarly painful and haunting novel. But words have their way with me more often than I with them and perhaps its better for that to be true.

Sometimes I think it necessary to make note of each of my separate personalities so that I cannot forget or intermix them, that happens quite often. I wonder if people notice, I wonder if some friends think its odd that they've never met those other friends who don't know those other people even exist. And on it goes. They probably think all of those people I mention here and there aren't even real. Oh they're real but the person you're talking to right now (me) is so far from any concept of "real" that you could even touch. Yes my heart beats, my blood flows but beyond that you couldn't even fathom a guess. My mind is tortured my information saturation and insecurities about insecurities. I'd like to think its insanely brilliant but that would be adding another lie to a list.

It's only here that if you pay attention very closely puzzle pieces of my insides occasionally escape and are momentarily suspended in the viscose of these words. Even then, it's hardly the kind of truth you'd swear to on a bible. But it is a beginning and right now, that's the only thing I'm counting.