Welcome to My (Real) Life...

The incentive to create characters and fabricate experiences is unavoidable. I’m not the only one that participates in this phenomenon. How many times have you exaggerated a story…maybe for theatrical purposes or because you can sense that the person you are speaking to is losing interest. Their mind is abandoning your undoubtedly, intriguing story of your adventures walking down the street when you… (insert event, crisis, etc. here…).

No one is listening.

The offense has already been committed… It happened the minute they began to compile a grocery list.

They are mentally crossing off items on their ‘to do’ list or thinking of what they will wear to work the next day. I’m sure they are resisting the urge to just pull the trigger and check their Ipone… for fear of offending (but it's too late). Maybe they ARE checking their phone…that’s the worst. That’s most people’s cue to shut up or change the topic. It’s my opportunity to insert my creativity and take on a character or characteristic of my choosing. There are millions upon millions to choose from. Who could resist that temptation! I could be a sophisticated socialite with an underground all-female drug ring.  I could be the criminal daughter of an Italian-American mobster instrumental hiding among the crowds of the balmy Boston Gardens in the springtime. 

Not sure why I feel the need to be a criminal today…

For all intensive purposes, I’ll tell you the truth about who I really am. But, not yet. I haven’t even begun to figure that out. It’s way more fun to play a role in the theater of reality.

My therapist suggested I keep this blog as a running narrative to ‘get in touch with my true self’. Someone define their ‘true self’…anyone? Anyone? Some may agree with me... that it is utterly impossible. To me, a self is changing. That the truth is too static and fragmented to pin down. Some people have an easier time accepting this than I do. I guess to my therapist, my ‘self’ is the person I am in the suffocating microcosm of my dingy south Boston apartment, in which my only true companion is my fat old cat, Walter. Even he doesn’t know that I have a serious addiction to Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. I have become accustom to locking him in the living room and eating the entire pint in the privacy of my overcrowded box that some may call, a bedroom. I guess it doesn’t make too much sense but sometimes I can feel my cats green eyes judging me as he purrs and watches me drown myself in ice cream. Just like Andrew used to do. Well Andrew didn’t purr but he rolled his eyes…regardless, that firery feeling it ignites in me is the same. The subtle flush that I feel creep over my cheeks is the same.

There you go. A little bit of truth. Savor it. It’s the best I have to offer for the time being. Now, you can officially say that you know me better then my best friend, Walter.

--L