This is not a blog.

I don't often share my feelings. With friends, family, foes, and minions, or anyone really. My poker face used to hold up pretty well. These days, it's not so good. And either way, that poker face cracks when I get angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

I don't keep journals. I don't keep a diary. I don't tend to open up to people who aren't married to me. Being a guy, that's somewhat common.

In high school, my best friend Tan was my best friend because we had a lot of similar interests (in one very ironic way in particular) but also because he could tolerate my ranting. All in all I didn't have a lot to rant about in essence. But I did so anyway. It was the thing to do. We were both 16 and the world was a big, scary place that was unfair and the girls we liked didn't like us. Blah, blah, blah and all that cal. I didn't really know how to deal with it. He didn't either. None of my other friends did either. But, every Wednesday we'd say oh well what the Hell and have fun and play some poker or whatnot. But when I didn't have that best friend to listen to me rant anymore ... well, I was kinda lost.

2001. Early November.

State Marching Band competition. We were in Waco, on the way, rather. I was no longer on speaking terms with my best friend, the drum major. As much as I hated the guy, I didn't have an escape. And my band friends were also his band friends because we had similar non-band cliques. So ... rock and a hard place. I didn't want to talk to my band friends since Tan's and I falling out wasn't formalized. I had to keep appearances up for sake of my own sanity and because at some level, I had hoped to deceive myself too. State Marching is a tense and emotional enough time for some people. That was when I turned to writing down what was going through my head.

I had brought along some schoolbooks to do my homework. When I was done, I held onto my math notebook. Unlike most kids in Texas, I used composition books instead of notepaper or spirals or whatnot. I grabbed a red pen and started on the composition book. I wrote my general experiences and my thoughts and my feelings. It was about 13 pages front and back in scrunched handwriting.

When I reread that journal I saw how emotion looked on the page. I was not happy with it. It made me look weak and I had a record of it. The red ink and the frantic writing at the end was pathetic. I decided to never do it again.

When I tried it again in college for the Oklahoma trip, I didn't get more than 3 or so lines done, but I didn't have that burning emotion inside me anymore. Back then, I was tense and was without anyone to really rant to anymore. So, I just kept it to myself.

And when dealing with my friends afterward, I hid my animosity when I could. I failed, often, since I lose my poker face when I get angry. However, I tried to manipulate people when I could. Successful manipulation requires low vulnerability and control of information. If I never let them know where I was weak, I could get further in my plans. That sort of thing. And it's harder to get hurt when I'm in control.

I'm not that high school senior anymore, angry about losing his sphere of friends and not getting the girl and otherwise feeling powerless. But, I still cannot keep a regular blog. The audience would dictate content rather than my emotions and experiences. How could I keep a record of what I'm doing and what I'm feeling when it's crucial to a plot of mine for that to be hidden?

And yes, the statute of limitations for some things has expired so stuff like this has recently been declassified.