I took a personality disorder test that Gabe linked to on his site. I ranked high for histrionics and narcissism.

One of the test questions asked if I always felt the need to tell a story. The question stunned me. I've been complaining of this urge for several months now. I do stupid things all the time for the sole purpose of telling stories. Seriously, that's one of the main reasons I traveled and kept a blog. I remember telling Dern, "I need to have stories to tell my Grandchildren." I remember telling JPo, "I feel like the retarded kid we nicknamed 'Wormy' who used to jump in mud puddles during recess just to make other kids laugh and like him."

I'm Wormy.

Lately, there hasn't been much rain and all the mud puddles are dried up.


Another Dirty Secret:


My last post -- the one about the car wreck, the old lady having an aneurysm -- it was a lie.

But, I suppose if it is written it could be considered literature and, therefore, a work of fiction.

I was so pleased and, quite frankly, surprised with all the emotional comments it brought in.

I question my sanity. I question whether or not I should write. Why write? I despise keeping a personal journal. I once kept a journal and I would always fantasize about people reading it sometime after I died. This fantasy would often lead me to sex it up for my post mortem audience. A little voice would tell me to give impromptu speeches before angry crowds, have sex with Turkish foreign exchange students, and tell the Air Force I'm going to be a priest.

How much of this was done truly for me? How much of this was done for new material?

I don't know.

I do know this: I can't write just for myself; I need adulation and praise from others.

How sick is that?

If you leave a comment, you are only contributing to my disorder. I demand you stop reading this blog. Stop telling me I should write a book. Don't comment.



Quit buying me double shots of Sauza.