15 June, 1997

Weird. I receive email from readers of this site. It isn't a fame thing that I'm hung up on, though. It's the whole idea that there are other actual people out there that have my url bookmarked. I exist in the pop up menu of someone's Control-B. Weird.

Sometimes, I hate getting email from readers. No, that isn't it. I hate having to reply. I sit there feeling a perfect doofus, stumbling over my "golly thank you" and "nice of you to write." They tell me they read my diary regularly (like it's updated regularly?), and that they feel they know me so well. What am I supposed to say to that? You know how it makes me feel? Like no matter what I jot back in reply, I'm going to be some major letdown. I'm not the person they think I am.

I don't know. Every time someone writes that to me, that they feel they know me, I actually go through the entire site and try to figure out who exactly it is that they know. You know what I see? A stick figure pencil drawing, void of colour, texture and flavour. Gage of the Second Dimension. See, it isn't that my diary paints a picture of some other girl. No. It just...it's only a slice of me.

Occasionally, I'm told that I'm so frank, I must feel raw and overexposed. Now, I don't know how many of you out there are truly excellent secret-keepers, but let me fill you in on a little trick: The best secret-keepers are those that appear to hide nothing. There's always something more, something worse, something uglier and deeper and blacker than what I tell you here. I don't feel raw at all; I know what I've said...and what I haven't.

Same time, though, a disquiet nags at me. That I'm not being very honest. That I'm not representing myself as fully and forthrightly as I might. That all of you that have written to say you feel you know me so well have been made fools of. Not that I'm cackling behind your backs, but still...

So, I'm thought-dumping a couple things. Nothing real deep, but slightly 3D:

• I buy little kids' bubble gum-flavoured toothpaste because I can't stand the taste of mint.
• I have freckles on my fingers, but not on my toes.
• I sing in the shower, in the car, and when I'm alone in the house. Loudly, and — contrary to my self-deprecating attempts at humour — in tune and time.
• I'm allergic to strawberries, milk, chocolate, and citric acid (but I eat those things anyway).
• I'm a pack rat.
• I'm "double jointed," left-handed, can curl my tongue, and wiggle my ears.
• I read 31 on-line journals nearly every day, and have another 49 that I hit three or four times a month.
• In 1991, because I'd always wanted one, I bought a 1967 GT/A 390 fastback Ford Mustang. She may not be street-legal, but she sure can haul ass down the quarter mile.
• I can hold up to 16 items in my short-term memoury.
• I met Trent Reznor in March, 1990. I told him I thought he was awfully nice looking.
• I cried when I saw the Johnson & Johnson Mother's Day commercial.
• I'm 18 months older than Manly Man, and that really bothers me.
• I got my nose pierced in July, 1990, and wear an emerald stud in it.
• If I had to be some other animal, I'd be a leopardess.
• I read 15 times faster than I type.
• My hair has been black, purple, green, blue, pink, yellow, teal, burgundy, and crayon red. Now, it's plain redhead red.
• My driver's licence says I'm 125 pounds and 5'6" even; I'm actually 112 and stand just 5'5.5".
• The clock in my car is 8 minutes fast on purpose. The clock on my computer is 3 minutes slow by accident.
• I have trouble relating to people born before 1962 or after 1974.
• I can sing the ABC's backwards very quickly.
• I went on-line the first time in October, 1989, with a 1200-baud modem and an IBM PS/2 Model 25.
• I consider myself a "Child of the 80s."