MOTHER MAY I

Today started off pretty good.

It’s my birthday and I wasn’t expecting much, but my coworkers were real cool and threw me a small party. One of them, the coolest in my book, even bought me a small chocolate cake.

And I wrote the second of two blogs that were very personal and satisfying. But it only took my mother to turn the mood from good to bad.

In my last two blogs, I mention my wife heavily, but play it fairly light and general. She had no problem with the first, but the second did make her cringe a little. Still, she was cool. But as I spoke with her on the phone, I could hear my mother in the background going on a tirade about putting personal information on the internet and how it could attract some crazy person. That, in combination with another coworker preaching the dangers of literary honesty, exemplified with Salman Rushdie and his book, Satanic Verses, and I found myself bombarded with images of some psycho killer targeting my family.

I don’t even think this thing gets around that much, but you never know.

Now I feel bad because I deleted the two entries. I was afraid and chose to play it safe. You know what "playing it safe" has gotten me? Nothing. No pussy. No money. No fame.

I hate censorship and I promised myself whatever I wrote here would be truthful. I like my blog, it’s very therapeutic and I feel good about what I do here. You think I'm horny and perverse? Fine. I am. And I have the balls to say it, which puts me with Howard Stern, Tom Lykis, and Hunter S. Thompson, and I love the company. All my life I’ve hid so much until it became a series of dark secrets I didn’t want anyone to know. No one really knew me, because everything I spoke was a lie I used to keep them away from the truth about my thoughts and opinions or what’s happened to me in the last thirty-three years. But now I feel free, or I did.

I’m sick of hiding who I am and what I’ve done. I’m not proud of my past, but I’m happy that I no longer live in fear of it. I’m ugly, fat, and have been rejected more times than I can count. I have a small penis, masturbate excessively, and if not for a strong moral center, I would’ve been convicted of date rape by the age of 18. I’m the biggest bottom-feeder you can imagine, and you know what…I’m happy and becoming proud of it.

There’s a strength and confidence that comes from admitting the worst things about you to people, when you empty your closet of skeletons and just lay it all on the table. If I can write my most embarrassing moments and still have a chick tell me I’m cool… Well, that means something doesn’t it? Maybe I am cool. Maybe I’m not as pathetic as I always thought. Maybe I’m just like everyone else, and there’s no need to get nervous and burst into sweat when someone looks in my direction. Maybe not everyone is talking about me, and if they are, then I might as well give them something good and become the life of the fucking party.

The problem is, there’s always those people from the bygone era who believe hiding is the only way to live. They think everyone is your fucking enemy. Death lurks behind every fucking corner, and neighbors shouldn’t know your last name. But what has that gotten us so far? We don’t know our neighbors, and have no idea who lives next to us. The guy who lives down my block could be a fucking child molester. The two towers fall and we freak out because anyone with brown skin could be a fucking terrorist, when if you took a fucking moment and get to know them, you’d find they’re probably more American than you are, and you should really be afraid of the white boy who was spanked by his momma too much, because now that crazy fucker likes to dice up females and bury them in his yard with his mom and dad who he killed for the insurance.

My mother lives her life in secrecy and I don’t even know how fucking old she is. What son doesn’t know how old their mother is, where she was born or her birth name?

My wife had no idea who she married because I’d portrayed myself as someone completely different. I was afraid if she knew the real me I’d lose her. It took five years of marriage for her to learn and love who I really am. And I’m not blaming my mother, but I’m pissed that people of an older generation are always trying to stifle the younger one. They still live by rules that no longer apply to how we should live today.

Anyone can find anyone, that’s what the information age is really about. No one is immune to crime or inhumanity. The internet has put everyone within arms reach of a psychopath waiting to pounce on them when the moon is full. Hiding who you are only makes you a target. It only makes you more interesting to the wrong people, and makes them want to know everything about you. Just look at the celebrities who run from the paparazzi vs. those that don’t. Maybe Princess Diana would still be here if she’d just stopped and paid her dues? You have to pay the price for fame, and it’s your privacy. You want to be in the limelight? Then smile big and take the hit, because you’re life is up for examination and dissection by the average folks you squeeze for time and cash.

And I’m not famous, but damn if I don’t want to be, and the last thing I need is for some snooping reporter to find some tidbit about me to ruin everything.

I’m thirty-three, but I feel ten years old again, worrying over every little thing I say for fear of mommy getting mad that I spilled too much info. I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to be me. I want to let it all out, all the crap that’s plagued me for years. I don’t care what they say about me, I want to be rid of the crap that’s made me a social cripple and kept me in my room, looking at movies and television, when I should have been living and loving in the real world.

I’m not ashamed of who I am, or what I’ve done.

I just want to be free and move on.

JPG.