I made new pages today with actual content, including my last fight with a radical rightist. Kind of sentimental, I guess. Did some best of posts, which I will change tomorrow to fave posts, maybe, so I can include my meeting John Gotti. Truly too proud of that story. But then I have to look at all my stories, which means that I should put them into categories. Okay, maybe. I also put a Best of BIO posts up. If anybody has any favorites in either blog that’s not up there, please let me know. Not the best judge of my own work.

The truth is that I have never been very good at plugging myself. I’m way better at causes and individuals. The truth is that I have always let my words speak for me. Now I let my cover story do it for me.

The truth is while I am a strange mix of shy and confident, I have always been the person to step out of the spotlight or the picture. The truth is I do care about offending people, leaving people out, and hurting people even if it is unwillingly or unwittingly.

The truth is that I feel awkward and strange. Who am I to deserve my blog as a cover? It’s just a blog, but it contains my heart and soul, and seventeen months of working every day. Haven’t put in the best of BIO posts yet, they were time consuming. Won’t put in excerpts from my actual memoir. There are stories throughout that reflect them.

The truth is many people find me almost too nice. I try to be kind; I’m not sure about nice. I’m not the warmest person in the blogosphere; as in life I usually find some ways to put Plexiglas walls around me.

The truth is that while I can come off as arrogant, cool, aloof, unduly impressed with myself, I have some problems that have almost defied diagnoses. Truly I am not trying to play off them. They have been very hard for me to write about. Yet I think that some people believe that I am using them for shameless self promotion. Why?

Until the advent of Windows, I knew that I couldn’t seriously write for publication. But the only only thing that I have ever really wanted to do is write. Because it’s the one thing that I truly love to do. It makes me happy. I could spend my life writing especially if the ocean waves are breaking in front of me, and tropical humidity is flooding in.

Windows, now blogging and gmail lets me appear organized though non-linear, especially on soupy days like today where I have to drink endless cups of coffee just to keep the mold farm from winning and taking over my brain;

I’m older than most of you. Have been working longer and harder. Though I’m sure that you all work hard at writing, I never take a day off. It’s a compulsion and a sickness, one that I used to believe to be harmless. Maybe it is. Maybe my creativity is coming out in one big spurt to make up for lost time.

The thing is, in spite of maybe a little because of my problems, I have led an interesting life. It has been the type of life that books are written about, and I do tell my stories well, if not quite in order. Though the memoir’s style is sometimes polar opposite of my posts.

My blog is where I practice telling my truths, and let it all out so the extanous stuff becomes unimportant. I try not to look at referrals in my site meter because just looking at the stats is scary enough for me;

The truth is that I was probably born to be a fact checker because I compulsively look for details to match. Which doesn’t match my disorganization, but many of my abilities don’t match my problems and my problems don’t match my abilities.

I made the best deposition digester because I was always looking for details to contradict each other. Things that seemed to make sense but really didn’t, one point made in ten different ways. Maybe digesting then training, then uber-training supervisors I managed fitted my world view.

Maybe I should have become the lowly fact checker people make fun of but I like, though have never quite looked like the stereotype. Maybe I should have worked in a world filled with facts and untruths though I personally have always seen everything in the middle.

The truth is that while I’m scared of the spotlight, I have always craved it. There was always somebody more worthy, more needy, more fun, less fun and in need of an ego boost. The truth is that I no longer care; the truth is that I care too much.

The real truth is that I stepped out of the limelight, out of the camera’s eye because I felt so unworthy, fat and ugly, though I knew how different the reality was.

The truth is that I have cheated myself out of so much pleasure because I spent so much time fearing the endless things that could go wrong.

The real real truth is that I am tired of being that person. I have worked far too long and much too hard. Maybe I can never learn the rules of grammar. Does that mean that I can’t make words dance in step with each other?

The truth is that I have talked about my problems not as a catharsis because it really isn’t, but maybe somebody else could see themselves reflected through me, and explained how she overcame them. Other times I talk about problems because it could help some other people. It’s not being selfless; it’s caring.

The bigger truth is that I seem to be unique. Yes I like having a unique personality. I hate having a unique subset of problems that many people seem to feel that I use to my advantage. The only advantage is that they let me see the world through many lenses.

The biggest truth is that I have worked hard and long to become a writer. My memoir is about a time in my life when I was young, lived off Fifth Avenue, and seemed to have it all together. Then I met Zachary, and easily prove that neither of us did. Though I did excel at my work life. Work was always a haven. I could pour myself into it, and know that I was accomplishing something, yet I was always waiting to be discovered as a fraud.

The fact checker in me knew that I made mistakes; the fact checker in me refused to acknowledge that other people made bigger mistakes. The person in me always believed that there was a reason for their mistakes; but me, well I should have been perfect.

The truth is that after Zachary there were more men. I was good at living a life filled with solitude but not good enough. I had too many friends for one big reason. There was always something fascinating to do. People to meet, brains to pick, bodies to lock with. I did look like somebody who had it all and to whom things came easily.

The truth is that while I think it’s good to live outside the box, I Know no other way. I have been using the word “but” too often.

The truest truth is that I believe in myself and my talent. I won’t step over bodies nor will I tell tales designed to hurt or to make me “popular.” If we’re lucky, we’re given one big chance in life to go for the dream or almost die trying.

This is my time and I will do everything in my power to make the dream come true. That’s my absolute unvarnished truth.

I’m not looking for comments that tell me how great I am or how horrible or anything inbetween. This post’s for me.

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