I am incredibly secretive (well generally also - if you've seen my profile you'll know this already) about anything that matters. If I was dying of some fatal disease the first my nearest and dearest would hear about it would be the call from the hospital to tell them I’d died (I thought seldom was looking a little peaky, that explains it!); if I was being sent to jail for some sordid and terrible crime they’d be reading about it in the papers before hearing a word about it from me (I knew it, there was always that shifty look – born to be behind bars I always said). Inconsequential stuff I’ll witter about semi-coherently for days at a time, driving people to dive through windows when they see me coming, but as for stuff that actually has anything to do with anything I’m a closed book.

                So I internalize, and go around with this demented grin, practically horizontal in my laid-backness while secretly dying inside (no seriously).

                I’m also hopelessly, utterly disorganized. If you got a card from me for your birthday you’ve no idea of the superhuman effort this took on my part. First, I had to remember it was happening at all (unlikely at best, unless you made a point of reminding me with repeated poking with sharp objects) and succeed in selecting and purchasing a card. The fact I found your address was a miracle (it was hidden on a post-it and stuck to the front of my PC), and then buying a stamp and remembering to post the card the equivalent of a normal-minded person trekking the Himalayas.

                Writing is the only thing I’m remotely organized about and also an outlet for the rumbling volcanic stuff that simmers below the surface of my mind.

                So there you go, that's me.

                What about YOU?

The End

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