My secret
◊ Shhh. Wanna hear something?
I'm a wuss.
I act all loud and obnoxious and bulletproof, but deep down I am the emo-est of emo.
I secretly read poetry.
I secretly write it, too. And not just haiku about murder and fucking, either. Mushy stuff. Sad stuff. The usual. It's always bad, and I always end up burning or shredding it when I find it, but I don't forget.
I can get very maudlin when I'm drunk by myself. Especially when I'm listening to Portishead or Tom Waits. This explains much of the bad poetry.
I get crushes on people after just watching them for a few minutes. Long lines, bus rides, sitting in cafés — these are little romantic minefields for me.
Nature and my sexuality are the only things that are sacred to me.
If someone takes me out at night to stargaze, I melt. Same with driving out to the beach so we can be alone together.
I have let my heart be broken by someone who took me to the beach and took me stargazing.
There's an entire U2 album I can't listen to anymore because of that guy, even after three years.
I don't believe there's an afterlife. I think that when you die, you rot. I'm usually OK with the idea, but occasionally it makes me sad. I try not to think about it too much.
I used to be a crybaby when I was a kid. I cried all the time. I still do it from time to time, but I've gotten better at it. Now I can cry without making a sound.
I'm telling you all this because doing it scares the piss out of me. I'm fine with kicking people in the shins and trading blowjob tips in mixed company, but admitting that my heart is just as squishy as everyone else's is terrifying.
It's a good thing nobody will ever take this seriously. I'll just say I made it all up, as a joke.