I've been tagged. No, a savvy street punk hasn't snuck up to me in ninja fashion, brandishing a spray paint can rather than a lethal dagger, and used my body or my possessions as a canvas for some new truly inspiring depiction of his or her name or "handle" or whatever the hell they call themselves. I've been tagged, as in "TAG YOUR IT." Thing is, I wasn't playing TAG as far as I can remember. I haven't played that game in quite a long time. As a child I was never fond of it. And by "it" I mean the game as well as being "it." Cause what "it" is or was or is supposed to be was never really explained. All I knew is that I had to avoid the person who was "it," if that person did in fact touch me I then became "it," everyone would avoid me like the plague and the only way I could get rid of such plague was to tag someone else, making them "it," then running away - completing and perpetuating the viscous circle of "it"edness which never, never ends.
Despite my clear distaste for the game, today I have been tagged. Via cyberspace. Through a blog, of all things. I had been working up my own theories as to why blogs, in and of themselves are evil, and now, NOW I have proof. My dear friend decided to tag me, blind-sided me, "called me out" so to speak. Here she is ...http://myysocalledlife.blogspot.com/ ... with friends like this ...
So here's the deal, I'm supposed to reveal 7 secrets about myself, then tag 7 other people (preferably bloggers) so that they can continue to spread this personal information virus. What will happen if I don't do this? Will some creepy, pale black and white preadolescent emerge from the image of a well on my tv screen and inexplicably kill me before I say "how can you emerge from such a shitty movie?" if I don't tag someone else in 7 days? I don't think so. Will I be subject to the scorn of little miss "my so called life" - prolly, but likely not much more scorn than I already deserve. But hey, as she said, I need some new material, and I aim to please. I especially aim to please attractive women. Some may say I aim to please, sometimes hit the mark, only setting my self up to serve as a major disappointment to those attractive women in the sometimes far, sometimes near, always inevitable future. So here I go.
Who will i tag? Don't know lots of bloggers, but it seems that everyone on MYSPACE likes to prattle on endlessly about their lives, their loves, their overwhelming need to expose those things best left private - so I'll tag a couple of them. In fact, they should be reading this .. so here's the tag for the following persons ....
EDEN, MICHAEL, ALICIA, CHLOE, MARISA, MICHAEL O, and BEANSIE who also happens to have a blog linked here .. THE PITTS CREW .. my dear friends - enjoy yourselves. Let the circle of the game of life of tag or something or other continue bringing us all within its downward spiral as it creates a giant sucking vacuum of information bound to unite the entire cyber universe in one big gigantic digital yawn.
MY SEVEN SECRETS
(1) I am not wearing pants. That is not true, I am actually wearing pants, I just like to say "I'm not wearing pants." Making such a statement is really only effective on the telephone or at the computer when the recipient of such message has no way of knowing whether you are actually wearing pants. Of course, the statement is somewhat effective if told in person, but usually only if the speaker is, in fact, not wearing pants. Truth be told, if that's the case, saying your not wearing pants when you are not wearing pants is fairly pointless, since most discerning eyes could or at least should perceive another's pant less or non-pant less wearing nature. So if I am wearing pants, what's the secret? The secret is I like to prattle on about nonsense. If you know me, then you know this is not really a secret.
(2) I have a wedding gown in my closet. Again, if you know me, you prolly know this already. So you know I was engaged to be married .. strangely enough I was engaged to be married on JUNE 19, 2005 - two years ago today .. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. You also know that I called off the wedding. You also may know that what I did was the right thing, unless you happen to be of the school of thought that "the right thing" is getting married to the wrong person, trying to tough it out, then hiring a divorce attorney to make all that ugly bad marriage stuff go away. Not me. Anyhoo, I have a wedding gown in my closet. Actually the closet in the office, the spare room. Spare room, spare wedding gown. The real secret may be - why the hell I still have it? I'm not sure. I may use it in a show I'm writing. I may keep it as a trophy. I may keep it so I can try it on if I ever reach my target weight (ok, that's a lie, she was a size 1 people). So what's The Secret? Besides a book and video by some Aussie woman that gives easy to swallow pat answers for the question "how can I have everything I want without working for it?" .. no this secret is, I don't know why I still have her wedding gown in my closet.
(3) I'm not nearly as confident as I appear. I know, you've read my blog .. surprise to surprise.
(4) I will always see myself as the fat kid. Yea, you may see me as that too. Damn those last 5 to 10 lbs. They follow me around like they're on my ass. And if you know me, you know they are not on my ass, because I'm Irish and as an Irish man I have no ass. It drops off like the continental shelf only its not as firm, its not as deep, and it is not nearly as interesting. But I was a fat kid - wait ok not true. Not compared to kids today who are on the verge of morbid obesity. I was neither obese nor morbid - hell I was desperately afraid of death .. I thought the Paul McCartney tune "LIVE AND LET DIE" was actually "LIVING MEN DIE" and it scared the hell out of me, as well it should, cause it is a true statement. So no, I wasn't obese, I was chubby. I was stocky. I wore husky pants. HUSKY PANTS. My pant size was neither large nor extra large, it was DOG. And while I seem to be of average size (keep the Irish/penis size jokes to yourselves) I'm softer than I'd like to be, something I work on, but I'd be stretching it to call me fat - in the realistic, living in the now, obeying the laws of physics and gravity sense. But in my mind, yeah, fatty fat fat.
(5) I'm a pussy. It's true. My therapist called me a pussy last week. Now, mind you, he meant it as a compliment. So yes, I paid a man $120 to call me a pussy in an effort to make me feel good. Sounds wrong doesn't it? In his defense or my defense or the defense of something, I called myself a pussy first. He tried to use it as a compliment, meaning that I am sensitive. I'm a sensitive guy. The problem is, or the good thing is, or hell the thing is ... I'm partly sensitive and partly alpha male or insensitive or an asshole, however you wanna describe it. And sometimes these two sides of me battle it out and the insensitive side calls the sensitive side a pussy and the only way I can handle the inevitable fall out is to pay $120 to some beverly hills therapist to tell me, I am not insane. I don't know, perhaps if I was sane I wouldn't need to pay someone to tell me that.
(6) I've recently realized that my parents aren't and weren't perfect. Now there's a lot of you out there who rebelled as children, always questioned your parents, railed against the machine. Not me. I was a good boy. I was a smart boy. I was a momma's boy. Clean cut and polite and smiling in my Husky sized pants. Now, through the help of the therapy described above and the benefits of time, I realize my parents weren't and aren't perfect. There are things they did regarding the creation, educating and molding of the questionable piece of art known as ME that I wish they would have done differently. They couldn't, of course, because they are who they are and were who they were. But its odd to sit back and reflect on the job your parents did, when the job they did was you, and think .. "oh yeah, you fucked that up just a little."
(7) OK, here's the big one, the big secret, the big confession:
I play .. well I've been known to play ... Ok this is hard to say, don't judge me, shit here we go ... I play World of Warcraft. There, I said it. I'm ashamed.
There you go gang. More than you prolly needed to know about me. Here I lie exposed awaiting your judgment, and scorn. I also await your own deep dark secrets. Upon reading those secrets I will excitedly await the next time I see you in person so I can embrace you for the total, complete, HUMAN human being that you are - and while I embrace you, you will know that I truly know you, that I truly love you, and that I am totally mocking you behind your back.
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