Not cool -

If you know me for very long, you'll find out one thing quickly.

I hate secrets. Just below my hatred for liars.

No, really. Secrets - the ones you REALLY have to keep - annoy me. They're work, and I really attempt to keep them to a minimum. The barest of minimums.

There are always the things that must be kept close to the chest. But those things that really can be spared, should.

The fact I hated your hot dish at the last potluck isn't one of the things I need to keep secret. Really really.

Just don't combine gummy bears and pork again and we'll be fine.

This tends to make me blunt to the point of painful, but it's easier than having too many secrets.

The problem today with this?

I have something wounding me to the quick that would benefit from being shared. Problem is, the audience that could help with this is very small to non-existant.

And I have to remember to curb myself - I could discuss it freely, but most people can't get the perspective.

Yeah, it's THAT again. Even here, I sense it.

You want kids? You have them. You don't want them? You won't understand why the lack is so disturbing.

Of course I have other things on my schedule of things to do - but today, I'm having to stop myself from kicking every time I think of something new. "It's just something else to do because you don't have a family to do other things with."

I could go back to school. I could spend hours writing in the evenings and weekends. Take up dance again. Sew, knit, crochet a whole store full of things. See the world, hell - I've got three countries on the list this year already.

I did that already. I've done it for years already - and as I said last night, my forties are looking just like my thirties and I'm feeling stuck here until I'm eighty, with no progress into something More.

Wounded a bit, I'd say.

So who do you talk to? I'm tired of the pity. It does nothing, except confirm that yeah, I'm SOL - it's not my imagination.

And frankly, people get tired of you and issues if you harp on it too much.

So. It remains a secret. Everything is fine, really - if you think about it. And I flatly refuse to feel sorry for myself.

But I'm a little sore around the edges. Don't worry, it'll pass.

Not cool -

If you know me for very long, you'll find out one thing quickly.

I hate secrets. Just below my hatred for liars.

No, really. Secrets - the ones you REALLY have to keep - annoy me. They're work, and I really attempt to keep them to a minimum. The barest of minimums.

There are always the things that must be kept close to the chest. But those things that really can be spared, should.

The fact I hated your hot dish at the last potluck isn't one of the things I need to keep secret. Really really.

Just don't combine gummy bears and pork again and we'll be fine.

This tends to make me blunt to the point of painful, but it's easier than having too many secrets.

The problem today with this?

I have something wounding me to the quick that would benefit from being shared. Problem is, the audience that could help with this is very small to non-existant.

And I have to remember to curb myself - I could discuss it freely, but most people can't get the perspective.

Yeah, it's THAT again. Even here, I sense it.

You want kids? You have them. You don't want them? You won't understand why the lack is so disturbing.

Of course I have other things on my schedule of things to do - but today, I'm having to stop myself from kicking every time I think of something new. "It's just something else to do because you don't have a family to do other things with."

I could go back to school. I could spend hours writing in the evenings and weekends. Take up dance again. Sew, knit, crochet a whole store full of things. See the world, hell - I've got three countries on the list this year already.

I did that already. I've done it for years already - and as I said last night, my forties are looking just like my thirties and I'm feeling stuck here until I'm eighty, with no progress into something More.

Wounded a bit, I'd say.

So who do you talk to? I'm tired of the pity. It does nothing, except confirm that yeah, I'm SOL - it's not my imagination.

And frankly, people get tired of you and issues if you harp on it too much.

So. It remains a secret. Everything is fine, really - if you think about it. And I flatly refuse to feel sorry for myself.

But I'm a little sore around the edges. Don't worry, it'll pass.

Not cool -

If you know me for very long, you'll find out one thing quickly.

I hate secrets. Just below my hatred for liars.

No, really. Secrets - the ones you REALLY have to keep - annoy me. They're work, and I really attempt to keep them to a minimum. The barest of minimums.

There are always the things that must be kept close to the chest. But those things that really can be spared, should.

The fact I hated your hot dish at the last potluck isn't one of the things I need to keep secret. Really really.

Just don't combine gummy bears and pork again and we'll be fine.

This tends to make me blunt to the point of painful, but it's easier than having too many secrets.

The problem today with this?

I have something wounding me to the quick that would benefit from being shared. Problem is, the audience that could help with this is very small to non-existant.

And I have to remember to curb myself - I could discuss it freely, but most people can't get the perspective.

Yeah, it's THAT again. Even here, I sense it.

You want kids? You have them. You don't want them? You won't understand why the lack is so disturbing.

Of course I have other things on my schedule of things to do - but today, I'm having to stop myself from kicking every time I think of something new. "It's just something else to do because you don't have a family to do other things with."

I could go back to school. I could spend hours writing in the evenings and weekends. Take up dance again. Sew, knit, crochet a whole store full of things. See the world, hell - I've got three countries on the list this year already.

I did that already. I've done it for years already - and as I said last night, my forties are looking just like my thirties and I'm feeling stuck here until I'm eighty, with no progress into something More.

Wounded a bit, I'd say.

So who do you talk to? I'm tired of the pity. It does nothing, except confirm that yeah, I'm SOL - it's not my imagination.

And frankly, people get tired of you and issues if you harp on it too much.

So. It remains a secret. Everything is fine, really - if you think about it. And I flatly refuse to feel sorry for myself.

But I'm a little sore around the edges. Don't worry, it'll pass.

Suckage...

Mom's back in ER at Loma Linda. *rolls eyes*

It doesn't sound fatal at the moment. Just 'wish it was fatal' stuff - if I were her, I'm certain.

Oh the miseries of getting old. It ain't for sissies.

Suckage...

Mom's back in ER at Loma Linda. *rolls eyes*

It doesn't sound fatal at the moment. Just 'wish it was fatal' stuff - if I were her, I'm certain.

Oh the miseries of getting old. It ain't for sissies.

Suckage...

Mom's back in ER at Loma Linda. *rolls eyes*

It doesn't sound fatal at the moment. Just 'wish it was fatal' stuff - if I were her, I'm certain.

Oh the miseries of getting old. It ain't for sissies.

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