Like many of you, I struggle at times with how much of myself I should reveal here.
Should I tell people that every time I read the words “Nano Poblano” I think of them sung to the chorus of “Viva Las Vegas”?
Should I talk about how much I still love my wife after all these years, or how grateful I am for all the little things she does for me? No, because, number 1, it would seem uxorious, and number 2, nobody wants to hear about good things.
In fact, people seem to positively resent other people’s good things. How dare I, or anyone else, have good things to say about anything?
So that’s out.
Should I talk about how unpopular I was as a child? That, in elementary school, I once had a valentine returned to me, unopened?
That might be okay. People can relate to being unpopular. Oddly enough, even very popular people can relate to it.
You popular people know who you are. Popularity is a thing you would never admit to, of course.
Those type of admissions are very unseemly.
Given that much of my writing this month has been about dating and many of the relationships I’ve had along the way, I might want to write about why it took me so long to find that type of love, and about all the things I did to sabotage my own relationships. I could dress it up like it was some sort of sociological study…
… How about “no”. That style of writing is irritating: “Thirteen Things Men Do Because They’re Afraid of Love,” written by A. Nonymous:
“… I realized, for all my talk of equality, that I wanted to be in control in my relationships. So, I let one after another slip away, to feed my ego… People want more freedom in their lives, not less: love should promote that; but, for years, I couldn’t see it.”
Well. That has the merit of being true, I suppose. Judging from readership on the Internet, people hate truth: they prefer politics, just to mention one of the many more popular choices. Erotica would be another.
I have told a couple of stories here that involve sex, although the predominant theme in each was my general cluelessness. General cluelessness, and my knack for finding women who had a point to prove to their ex.
Speaking of being clueless, my wife is out of town for a few days, so I’m having hot dogs for breakfast. Should I admit to that?
I’m pretty sure I just did.
I also started working on a song. I stopped writing songs because inspiration only ever seem to hit while she was sleeping. I wasn’t going to wake her up trying to work out a song at the piano.
I write poetry instead, typing is less noisy. And less grating than my voice.
I hate my voice. I could write about that. People can certainly relate to that – you most likely hate yours too.
Even though they’re the only voices we have.
And we’d have a hard time admitting to anything without them.
For Nano Poblano this year, I’m trying a prose post a day instead of my usual work in poetry. Thanks for reading. – S.B.