To keep my love alive

Do you ever feel like you’re constantly working to make sure that you stay in someone’s good graces?

I do. And I hate that.

“Don’t behave a certain way, you might piss Soandso off… don’t send that text, you might look insecure… don’t bother reaching out to anyone, you’ll look like a fool.” What happened to the good old “just be yourself” slogan? Apparently, “just myself” doesn’t cut it very often.

It’s like a lose-lose situation. Either I cave in, exhausted, and pander to those whose opinions of me matter a great deal, or I don’t care one whit what they think of me, and I look like an idiot. And then I guilt myself for it later. What’s wrong with me?

In other news, that’s what’s on my mind tonight. I’m absolutely bone-tired without any good reason for it, my bed is beckoning, but I still have things to do and I can’t seem to accomplish anything– except what’s probably too much thinking. For example, I can know, on the one hand, that this post is full of absolute nonsense, but here I am, continuing to write. While writing, I’m considering the fact that no one will look at this, and if they do, the likelihood that they’re someone I know/worry about impressing is remarkably slim. Nevertheless, here I am thinking about it. It’s a good thing that writing, just like my few fickle stabs at composing, is something I do for myself. And only me. I just pretend I have readers because it helps move my mind along. Otherwise I tend to dwell and obsess… hard to believe of me, I know.

I really should be going to bed.

Instead, I guess I’ll talk about the title of this blog. It’s stuck in my head; it’s a song from “A Connecticut Yankee,” a musical based off of Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, which, I might add, the downtown library here Does Not Have. No matter, it’s not as if I could make time to read anyway.

I suppose I could be reading right now.

Well, I’m not.

If you’ve ever wondered what goes on inside my head, this is a pretty good representation. Complete with Helvetica font. I’d make some pithy statement to wrap up my original concept of worrying over impressing others, but I can’t think of one. It’s too much work, just like it’s too much work to make someone like you if they really don’t. This brings me back to the odorous dead horse metaphor. I’d just as soon revive the damn thing, and you’d have to drag me away to stop me. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean that I can’t see the poor sucker is dead as a doornail. I can tell. I just choose to believe otherwise.

Does that make me stupid, or crazy? Or just tired?

Don’t worry, I’m leaving. Finally. Goodnight.