Because I said so

Blake wants to read the blog. I mentioned that I wrote about the impound incident. When I said that, I didn't really expect him to want to read what I'd written. I suppose it's only natural, though, to be a bit curious about how chunks of your own life might be playing out on the internet. But, it's been so long since someone asked to read this thing, I was completely caught of guard.

My mother asked to read it once, about a year ago. I said no. She asked why not. "Because I said so," I told her, smiling as I watched one of her favorite parenting lines come back to bite her in the ass. I reassured her that I write about her with obvious affection and suggested that she continue to be nice to me, so that I might continue to do so.

It's true. I've never written anything here about my family that they shouldn't read. I've never really written anything about myself they shouldn't see, either. I keep the sordid details of my hot, hot sex life, my psychotic tendencies, my bizarre neuroses, and my weird crush on Jackson Browne off the internet. For the most part.

And, if you've read this mindless dribble for any length of time, you know I really don't have much to say. But, once in a while, I have one of those days. It is on those days that I most love this little pile of mindless dribble.

There is something about writing to strangers, people who you don't have to see at work later that day, people who can't just call to check in—something about that just works for me.

There is nothing like the friends and family I have out here, in real life—people who see and hear and touch me, who read my body language and the tone in my voice, who (sometimes) know when my I'm fine is complete and utter bullshit.

But, there's also something about this, about all of you, way out there, in the distance, that (sometimes) lets me say, I'm not so fine. I am, at my core, a complete and utter chicken shit. Even on the best days, when I'm just telling a funny story, writing is inherently a bit vulnerable. You put it out there and then it's just, well...out there. It's easier to do that when no one knows it's you doing that.

Therein lies the problem with real life people reading this. Or maybe not. After all, Graci reads it, and that's actually sort of been a great thing. She seems to understand what this is for me. She knows that if I say something here that I haven't told her already, it's something I don't mind her knowing, but probably don't want to discuss.

Speaking of Graci, have I mentioned just how stinking much I miss that girl? So stinking much. And do you know what I really miss? There's just no way to say this without it sounding like the cheesiest, sappiest shit ever, so I'm just going to blurt it out...I miss the hugs. That's right. I miss the fucking hugs.

Graci used to give me a hug every day. She's a hugger. Me, not so much. If you lived with her, though, she'd hug you every day, too. Even if you had morning breath, or a communicable disease, or just finished ironing your shirt, she'd hug you. She doesn't care. She also doesn't ask, "Do you want a hug?" First, she knows that I would always say, "Nah, I'm good." And second, that's not really the point.

Graci doesn't hug you because you want a hug, or need a hug, or even because you might secretly like hugs. Graci hugs you because she loves you. It's part of the deal. Because she loves without reservation—every day, even when you have morning breath, or a communicable disease, or are entirely too invested in stupid shit like your shirt, she hugs you that way.

And I miss it.

I'm also missing my train of thought. Where was I? Oh yes...the blog. Graci doesn't read this and then ask, "What's wrong? Are you okay? Are you sure you're okay? Really? Because you didn't sound okay." (Thank God, as that would be a reason to quit writing...and start strangling). She gets me. She knows I'm claustrophobic, that I sometimes need a safe distance. She respected that even when we lived in the same small apartment. I wrote a post on one end of the couch. She read it on the other.

When I told my mother, "No...because I said so," what I meant was, "You will not be able to respect that. You'll try, but you won't be able to help yourself. You'll be reading between the lines and calling to ask, Are you okay? Are you sure you're okay... and then I'll have to start strangling. You. I'll have to strangle you. "

Graci also never reads this and then says, "Uh...you know, that wasn't that great. Not so funny." Pointing out the (not so) occasional typo is where her editing starts and stops. Again, she gets me. She knows that this is all just stuff in the rough and that I generally don't have it in me to graciously accept constructive criticism here. Besides, brutal honesty isn't really her style. Instead, she just tells me to keep writing. Even when the writing sucks.

Now we have Blake, who I write about with obvious affection but have, so far, told, "No...because I said so." By that I meant, "Dude, we haven't known each other that long and, occasionally, there's something here that I wouldn't just tell someone I haven't known for that long. I save that shit for people I don't know at all." And also, "We pick on each other, sometimes mercilessly, and I can't be mercilessly picked on for what I write here. I just don't have it in me."

This morning, however, he showed up with coffee. I worked all night, and he brought me coffee. Something about that (something he laced the coffee with, no doubt) made me think maybe he could read the blog.

Hopefully, he won't read it as some sort of request to start hugging me. It's really just an attempt to get more coffee.