Storytelling.

I love that as soon as I consider writing a blog all my positive topics desert me and I'm left thinking... well. You may have some idea, knowing me. Depressing blog posts are easy, so easy, and plenty of depressing thoughts have befriended me lately. "Oh HELLO THERE," one will say as it pulls up a chair, "how are you doing today? I like you. Remember [awesomely depressing thing]? Yeah. That's just effing great, isn't it? Remember that time. . ?" Or I'll be accosted in the hallway by one, caught by the throat so that I have to remind myself to breathe.

I swear.

I don't even know what I'm swearing, but I guess I swear it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It also seems like a good idea to tell you that I'm going to be okay and that I am dealing with these thoughts or trying to or something. They leave me feeling like a loser. I guess I'm not a loser.

This is what happens when I try to write cheerful blog posts. Geeze.

At the library I have been charged with the task of alphabetizing forms. My stack is going on five inches tall at the moment. As forms come in they are put in another stack, which I alphabetize by its lonesome and then check off names on a master list. Then it is time to merge the two piles, which I do one letter at a time and check against the list.

I am getting so good at alphabetizing, I swear. I swear. Apparently I'm swearing a lot today. I suppose it is to be expected, considering this is all I've been doing for the past week. I separated and alphabetized fifty sets of business cards for teachers early last week, then began the form debacle. What's more, the form has a formatting error on it that makes it impossible to tell students first names from their middle names, which gets interesting when you're dealing with fifty or so Garcias/Rodriguezes/Hinojosas.

The funny thing is that I really don't mind doing it. Now that I'm getting better at alphabetizing and am in possession of a master list of names it isn't as difficult, just time consuming. Which I'm all for, actually. I love having things to do. The not knowing what I have to do is what stresses me out.

Of course, it is still turning my head to mush somewhat, but I suspect I will survive.

Career Prep today was hilarious. We have a whopping five students in this particular class, two of whom were absent today, and the air conditioner was out in our room. I popped in for approximately two seconds, after which I joined my fellow classmates in the hallway. It felt like walking through soup. Being such a small class, we camped out in an empty-ish room across the hallway with the teacher and swapped sob stories about the male gender and life.

It was pretty awesome.

I really don't hide my story anymore, when it's relevant. Sure, I hide myself from the world most of the time, but I am largely transparent about my story. My story.

That was... was that dramatic? A pat on the back to me, why don't you, universe. Or not.

My story is a condensed handful of sentences I pull out at strategic moments. Okay, I'm going to take back my previous statement in favor of some magical clarification because I have been blessed with both skill and laziness. While I am much freer with my story than in the past, I am still somewhat loathe to share it.

This being because people don't care. Okay, lies. Probably lies, probably untrue in many cases, but my point is that often the reply is "oh, that sucks never mind let me walk away/talk about my cat/ignore you now."

I am definitely in favor of discussing one's cat. My supremely goofy math teacher talks about his cat constantly, and it is one of the better parts of my day. His cat is very elderly, named Stubby and holds claim to being a whole lot less bossy than his ex-wife. His cat is one of my favorite things. True facts.

However, my point (which may have existed once but grows fuzzy by each clacking of keys): once you tell your story, it's gone. Even if you have been prodded to tell it, expressly asked to hand it over, you have no control over the reaction of the party you've allowed to hold it.

One could argue that this holds true in every situation. Other Parties make their own decisions, in theory, and their reactions are not in your control no matter how well you remake your words to sound whole and strong and... certain.

This is something that I struggle with. That I have control over only myself. I can buff and polish and fill my every breath with despicable amounts of plastic surety, press my words so that they please me even in their imperfections--but no matter what I do, I cannot control the outcome or people involved or any small change in the wind.

My story is not who I am, though, and I struggle to balance fakery with transparency. I'm so often told to "fake it til [I] make it," and entertaining this idea is at any length mind boggling. If I've hidden myself for so long and found it so hurtful, how can I force myself back into this completely?

The answer is that I can't. I am imperfect. I am a work in progress. I will try my best, and that will have to be good enough. These simple phrases are so, so difficult to form and believe. They tangle in my thoughts, become indistinguishable, become lies to me.

I'm working on it.

As I have successfully confused myself with Deep Magical Thoughts sufficient to last me a few minutes, I leave you with a conversation between two male peers of mine I overheard earlier today.

"I just drank twelve pints of vodka, it just hasn't hit me yet."

"If you can do that, you're Irish.

"Or amazing."

"Or Russian, actually."

Oh, knowledge.