A Shared Secret

I absolutely love Post Secret. People send in post cards, anonymously, with their secrets on them, and the guy in charge of the whole thing posts some every Sunday. It’s lovely. A couple weeks ago, I saw a secret that is exactly one of mine. Now, I know that I am, by far, not the only one who has experienced this. I found it remarkable that some one else in the world shared the same secret. Exactly. Every detail.

At first, I didn’t think anything of it. But then a thought popped in my head. Probably a silly thought, improbable and ridiculous. But, what if I had sent it in? What if I did it without knowing I did? People do all sorts of things in their sleep. But I don’t sleep walk, I sleep talk.                      Another personality?

What if I did have another personality? What would she be like? Which part of me? The good, the evil, or the girl struggling in between?  Really, it’d be between the part that hates and swears and yells and insults and fights, and the part that is the innocent, naive, behaved, encouraging, and playful. I am the girl struggling in between. But which personality would win over the other? Or would it simply be like another person?  And if it was, would it be some one I would like or even want to be friends with (if, obviously, she wasn’t the same person as me)? Or a girl I would resent and be irritated by?

Yes, I realize I’m thinking too much about it.  I do that.

So here’s to over-analyzing and thinking too much.

Thing to smile about #2: Being home alone but not being lonely.

Weather Fit For The Occasion.

     At almost this same time last year, on a Monday, I was sitting on the porch of my boyfriend-at-the-time. I was sitting on the cold, cement steps, in an oversized hoodie. His arm was round me and my hair was simply and carelessly pulled back. I had on little make up because most of it had been cried away earlier that morning. It was raining and dreary – appropriate weather for the most recent, tragic happenings.

     The Friday before was a regular school day. I had survived my first hour class, Honors English, and had routinely sang through second-hour Chorale. Lunch was as boring and uninteresting as it usually was. I had, again, not brought anything to eat and had, again, half-intentionally, not brought money to buy food. My table consisted of a few girls and fewer guys, all of whom I currently or previously shared choir with, except for one girl, who I met during the musical of the last school year. Three guys and four girls at my table, usually.

     Two of the girls were inseparable – they still are. They were both energetic and loved everything Disney and musicals. The girl I had met in the last school musical had red hair and played the piano. One guy had moved to America from Mexico before his sophomore year. I had met him the year before. Another was a boy I had gone to homecoming of freshman year “with.” Both were in Chorale. One boy was a freshman (who had come into the high school from the same middle school as I had attended), a bass in my choir, and the quietest one at the table. None of us really went out of our way to talk to him, but it wasn’t as if we ignored him or shunned him in any way. For the preceding couple weeks, he had offered to share a part of his lunch or had offered me a dollar or two. That Friday was no exception. He offered me some of his meal, consisting of a bag of chips, a carton of milk, and a burrito. Not particularly being a fan of any of those, I declined gratefully.

     The rest of that day was normal and uneventful. Or, rather, I assume it was uneventful because I don’t particularly remember anything else happening that day, or even the next. On Sunday, the speaker at my church (which was half an hour away from my home) had commented on the death of two local boys that had died in  a car crash. He named them and, at the time, it didn’t cause any bells to ring or any lit light bulbs to appear above my head. When I got home, I checked my Myspace (as I did religiously). When I looked in the bulletin space, I saw bulletin after bulletin entitled “Tim, we will miss you” and “Tim and Josh” and, finally, “RIP Tim and Josh.”

The trouble with inventing friends.

     My [real, live] friend and I made up a mutual friend. Although I forget the actual name we decided upon, we agreed to call him “Shoe.”  We also have two actual mutual friends that we both saw each week at the time. We created Shoe to have messages “from”, to pass to each other via our actual friends. No real point to it except amusement, I suppose. Anyway, it stuck and we’ll give each other updates on how Shoe is doing. Thanks to Facebook, our most recent conversation about him went like this:

 

Me: “Shoe says hey.

He misses you.
In a strange way.”

Her: “Uh oh. Last time he missed me in a strange way, I ended up being duct taped to a wall outside of Nashville…

You’d best tell him I say hello.”

Me: “I remember that.

Mm… This was a different strange way.
Nevertheless, I shall tell him so.”

Her: “Oh gosh, please don’t tell me that you helped. That was brutal. I didn’t sleep for a week afterwards I was so keyed up.

How so? What should I expect?
Thanks. Oh, and will you tell him that he should call me?”

Me: “I didn’t help. Not me. I’m nice. I was stalking him, trying to call ahead to the hardware stores, telling him not to sell him any kind of adhesive.

This time, I would expect hog-tying, postage stamps, craft glitter, some rubber bands, and – better safe than sorry – some ramen noodle.”

Her: “Oh my goodness, no. Please.. Haley, you have to save me. That stuff is.. the epitome of fright!! How am I supposed to survive this?!? What has gotten into him anyway?”

 

        So here’s to make-believe friends and missing people in strange ways.