Pansy

As the title suggests, I feel like a bit of a pansy. I'll tell you why. Because I took the link to this blog off my Facebook profile. I know, big deal, blah blah blah. Seriously though, something happened that made me uncomfortable. The result of which, actually, has me more than a little disappointed in myself.

So here's the story. Not much of a story, really, but I'll call it thus anyway. My mom joined the Facebook world. And, of course, I would have felt like a complete dick of a son if I hadn't friended her. But Facebook is one thing. My blog is quite something different.

Facebook contains a profile. The briefest of synopses pertaining to who someone is. There are also pictures, which probably do more to tell you about the person than the profile itself does. Its funny, but sometimes you get to thinking that you know a person really well, and never realize that the knowledge you think you possess might be largely based on their Facebook account. I was a little hesitant to add my mom as a friend. There are numerous pictures posted of myself that I really would rather she not have seen. None of these pictures depict me snorting lines of cocaine or shoving things into my ass (neither of which I do, by the way, at least not regularly), and I'm thankful for that, because Photoshop is a miraculous and potentially devastating program. The pictures on Facebook simply provide my mom with a window through which she can peer into a side of my life she has never had the opportunity to previously see. Not a horrible thing, really. Many have seen the partying, drunk, stupid, and immature side of me. Why not my mom? Its just another venture outside of my comfort zone, and to be honest, our relationship has probably grown a little bit because of it. Like I said, not a bad thing. Not at all.

The blog, on the other hand, I am not ready for her to see. Not that her seeing it and reading it would be a horrible thing. But the blog provides a window into my mind. I fear that if she were to peer through this particular window, she might be a little disappointed by what she saw. It might be the fact that my posts are largely cynical and pessimistic in nature. It might be the crude words I sprinkle over everything as if they were multi-colored, candy-coated sprinkles with centers made from edible gold. To be honest, I don't know what it is, but I get a definitively uncomfortable feeling when I think about my mother reading these posts.

Some of the people that I am closest to in this life already read my blog (you're addicted and you know it). So why not my mom? I don't know. She is certainly one of those people that I am closest to, she just doesn't read my blog. At least, I don't think she does. Who knows, maybe she found this weeks ago and has been contentedly peering into the grey matter which fills my cranial cavity ever since. The internet is a clever thing. Maybe I feel like there's a certain level of appropriateness that should be observed when letting family in on the lesser-known areas of your life.

Whatever the reason(s), I am not ready for her to read this. When will I be ready? I don't know. I'm sure I'll know when I am ready. Honestly, I hope I feel ready soon, because that will probably be a direct result of me becoming more comfortable with who I have turned out to be.


The beat box is unplugged. Its open mic night and no one feels like singing.