Is this for real?

Is this for real? Am I really going to blog? Am I going to write things about me--my personal thoughts and feelings, my rantings and pontifications about society and politics and parenthood and drugs and sex and whether or not my outfits are too "matchy"--and put them out there for anyone to read? Then it occurred to me: I'm an exhibitionist, so sure, why not.



So, I'm really just another dude. But, I have story.



Of course we all have a story, one that we've created for ourselves through experiences and their interpretations and how we've chosen to relate to the world because of all that stuff.

The process of story-building, with it's accompanying scripts in our minds, has long been a fascination of mine. And, of course, the chapters in most stories are named. Labeled.



Some of the labels I've sported have been easy to embrace and others I've embraced in the same manner as I would were I holding a stranger's baby whose diaper is filled with shit. Here are a few: dad, fag, gay man, victim/survivor, Mormon, Buddhist, social worker, drug addict and, of course, the usual son, brother, uncle etc.

And now for the ones that have been easy to embrace. LOL. Just kidding. Although--and I'm not even kidding now--at times it feels easy to embrace the label of hopeless failure. It's comfortable, like a twently year old recliner that's worn and tattered and smells like a melting pot of the B.O. of everyone who has ever sat in it, but, damnit, its molds to your body!



So, how do I get my ass out of the hopeless-failure recliner and fucking stay out? I think this shrink needs a shrink. That's a phone call I'll make tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think that's enough rantings from me for one day.