I am a liar.

There are no doubts, now. I am good at lying.

I figured out something about keeping this blog up after my last post. This is the liar I’ve become, but not the writer I am or have always intended to be.

I’ve been continually apologizing for a bad memory about what I’ve posted, or not. I’m sloppy. I’m going to be sloppy again in this post and don’t seem to have any remorse.

Meaning, I’m not looking back at what I have written nor am I looking at what I am writing. I am only writing forward, recording my life, stuff, posting, as it goes, and I am not even sure I’m making a point each time. I’m like the cafeteria food at a grade school of trying to be a writer. I’m getting close, but the getting by on pizza for breakfast and the French fries, for a vegetable substitute, they count as calories, but they don’t really count as sustenance. (It’s like I’m Twinkies instead of organic vegetables.)

Filler sucks.

I’m sharing enough to share, to connect, but I’m not sharing near what I’d share if I was writing behind a character. I am not giving even half of the honesty I have to give. I admit it. I am living it, this giving of half truths in every blog.

I am so afraid of the repercussion of someone I know, who I wouldn’t divulge half this information to, finding my blog, and thus making my current need for anonymity (as it relates to job security) a thing of the past.

The writer I am, while not blogging, would cut a line down my center and expose my core so vividly that every bit of my guts would fall like entrails on the examiner’s table. I’d let every ounce of my mess and the beauty of me lose, to be posted like a check list for all who would read it, allowing them to tick off on the boxes of what they could identify with, or what they could not, and I’d ask an editor if what I’d thrown up for the tally made the list or busted the chase and fell flat. (I’d be a fucking professional with sailor’s mouth and a spell checker.)

I’d not try to spin it happy at every end or always try to be inspirational, like I’ve been doing with these blog posts. I’d just say how it is and then slip into that Polly Anna as I was feeling it, because I am a positive dork along my center line naturally. In other words, I want to feel it not force it.

Regardless, I’m finding that there is a problem with blogging. I’m never going to be totally honest. I am always going to be a bit of liar. I need to hind behind a character, and have characters for the stories of my friends to hide behind. I need to not lie. In a blog, I don’t have that. My friends don’t have that.

I want, want, want the cover that characters allow. I want to let go of all the safety I, and I feel my friends, require. So, from here on out, no matter what I say, continue to consider me to be a liar. I’m telling as much of the truth as I can, but there is so much more I cannot, and will not, share in this forum.

As I alluded to in my last post, I can admit that I am scared shitless that one of my dear friends is potentially suicidal. But I cannot say more about why this friend is in such a bad state, because, again, I cannot and will not give enough details that can ever be traced back to this specific dear friend. (The protection of their identity is paramount to me.)

I can also say that I am stressed, and that Bull #1, and Bull#2, and the Lead, have been/are part of the stress I’ve been enduring in work for the last 2 years, and that they’ve all messed with the security of my lively hood (how I pay for my life), but I cannot say more because they are people, not characters. I can’t slam them in a public forum. Whatever they’ve done to me, something likewise has been done to them and I’m not going to continue their undoing, certainly not publicly.

I’d love to bend them over in a book, though, were I could give them fake names and make up untraceable job titles, and drill down to their every nuance and not hold back. I’d have targets on their backs and drills in their ears in no time. But here, now, in real time, where this is my job, not as a writer, but as a girl who needs health insurance and a roof over her head, and as the girl who needs to make her 9-5 money, I have to be obtuse to protect myself and them.

Likewise, I’d love to say how it’s not just the roaches and the lack of light that are f’n with me with where I live now. I’d like to say how I got sliced on the lease the night before I moved in. But, if I go into those details, on how that person renting to me, who was supposed to be a friend, screwed me, a couple of those details being a move out date of December the 31st, 10:00 am (really? Is this a hotel?), and an agreement to hang no more than 10 pictures on the wall, and a verbal request of not going barefoot, as the oils on one’s feet can soil carpet, then I’d be potentially taking down a real person.

So, none of that happened. I'm lieing about that. There also have not been any inferences or my rent being raised by $400.00 come lease end. And, I wasn't living with this person’s furniture: an amour, a dresser, another dresser, another shelf, a wall hanging, yet another amour, and another smaller dresser, and more, too much to mention, along with my own furniture, up until about a week ago.

I have not been feeling like this place is not my place, but someone else’s entirely. The roaches, they're all a lie, too. Who picks up a roach in their hand? That can't be the truth. The contant water from the golf course and the snails, they aren't destroying my plants either.

Sure, call me an ass for signing the lease, but I didn't get the lease until the night before I moved in. Or did I get it sooner? Which is the truth? Just for fun, here's a question: What would you do if you were leaving your husband of 13 years and being given certain circumstances to accept (via a last minute lease) at 6:45 pm the night before all your things were going to be moved from the husbands place? (You get that my old apartment is my ex-husband now, yeah?)

As a writer, all is fair in life being lived and ink on the page. As a person, getting by, these people, these situations, I feel a responsibility to protect them.

So, every thing I just wrote I is/was a lie or may not be.

The only thing that is the truth is that I am sick of lying and I need an editor. I need to bleed without a tourniquet. I need to feel without a filter. I need to connect without the fear of sabotaging my livelihood. I need to be a writer without boundaries. I need to be able to punctuate without knowing every grammar rule.

What’s fabulous? Finding a way to marry needs, wants, and gots-ta haves.

Ready.

Willing!