“Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has others which he would not reveal to even his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But finally there are still others which man is even afraid to tell himself, and every decent man has a considerable number of such things stored away. That is, one can even say that the more decent he is, the greater the number of such things.”
Fyodor Dostoevsky

I started with that quote because it’s been kind of a theme recently in my life. Also, the ones “which man is even afraid to tell himself” are indirectly being exploited currently under the guise of “unconscious bias”. More on that in another entry. For now I wanna stick to my favorite subject, me. I know, I should be ashamed. I am. Very.

I waited entirely too long to start this kind of exploitation of my life. I am no wordsmith or writer, but maybe everyone has a story to tell regardless of how incapable they are at writing. At any rate, I am under no delusion that there is little to no one who will find any of this interesting save a not-yet-born distant offspring looking for answers to my eventual botching of their upbringing. I will attempt to be honest as possible about who I am and how I feel, as well as how others see me, but I am also under no delusion that this will be highly subjective and chock full of confirmation bias. It isn’t intended. Its just the nature of things. Plus Im a liar….and an impeccable wordsmith.

What is a healthy amount of self absorption? It takes a fat girl’s plate full to take time out of your day to write about yourself. Is it any consolation that I at least attempt to cloak mine in self deprecating humor? Thats something someone else will have to answer, and is most likely wholly dependent on whether or not they consider me an asshole(tons do Im sure). This is me attempting to not allow my fear of being unbearably narcissistic keep me from telling my story to anyone who may want to know it. Oh, the struggle between self absorption and self loathing! Can you feel the tension?

Insecurity is a tricky affliction. I often wonder if the term “ignorance is bliss” applies to them. If only I didn’t know I wasn’t special…. Imagine the freedom of a distorted self image and the false confidence it brings. Surely this is how idiots get great jobs. Surely this is how fat, ugly assholes end up with great women. Being self aware is a double edged sword. The more aware of yourself, the more humility you have to swallow, and that comes with a truck load of doubt and internal struggle. I find as this awareness increases, so does the amount of things you have to muster the strength to accept or fake doesn’t exist. Am I delusional or am I aware? Both have their merits and both are humiliating in different ways. I think thats about far enough into psycho babble. Any further and Ill be slipping on Freud, and I don’t own a chaise lounge to fall onto to myself any more comfortable.

I try to pride myself in being honest with others about who I am, but sometimes I wonder if thats just a way to justify talking about myself entirely too much. The self importance I feel myself exhibiting makes me sick in the fleeting moments recognize it(Im puking in my mouth a lil bit right now). This is the sting of awareness, and the wallop of acceptance it takes to be honest. The only way to be true to yourself is to face the lies you tell yourself when you notice them, but who says being true to yourself is the only way to be happy? I prefer being true, but I definitely don’t know the fundamental path to happiness. I only have what’s been working for me as of yet. I think.

This doesnt give you a full grasp of who I am, nor will the entirety of my journal. It will give you a glimpse of who I am, and thats more than not putting the story down for you to read it. Pictures will only show you how unbelievably attractive I am, and how you will eventually fail at ever being as cool as I am right at this moment. This journal though, well now you’ll be able to see how stupid and insecure I am, which I hear is what ugly people use to cope with someone being unbearably better looking than them. So if you’re ugly, here you go.

So what secrets am I keeping from you, and more importantly from myself? Better yet, what secrets are you keeping from yourself? Maybe you shouldn’t ask yourself that. Ignorance is bliss.