So, I’m going to do something dangerous. I’m going to be honest for a bit. This is the post I started writing last time, but it got out of control and decided to be snide instead of truthful. There isn’t much to be said about personal journals. They may be meant to be snapshots of our daily lives, but capture only our own solace and frustration. They are the cure to no disease, except perhaps the kind of self-indulgent apathy of a generation that believes it has the right to be happy. We (you and I) were built of the best materials, a generation that forgot about skin-deep prejudices and stopped caring if Mike either slept with Joan or Jerry. I’m speaking in generalities, in sweeping statements. Yet, certain obstacles overcome, we were bred with deep suspicion and guilt. We have high expectations which we expect will not be fulfilled. Could the same be said of our fathers and mothers? While not completely blind to the past, I have to see it through heavy bias. But so far, this is just filler, a couple of candles to get you in the mood.This is not a journal, or should I say, this is a journal. I do not record events or perceptions. The thoughts you read are heavily filtered for relevance and maturity. Most of the time they tumble and loop like poorly executed paper planes. The few that fly are curious spontaneous creations of circumstance, like an unexpected kiss in the rain. Being me is certainly very much similar to being you. I do most things for little reason. Except, I don’t, and here is the part where I’m honest. I do most things for you. I doesn’t matter who you are, because if I was aware of your existence, you’d do just fine. I want you to like me, but not as much as I want you to like what I think. So I write for you. I wake up and live for the chance to tell you who I am, and please tell me that’s ok?It’s selfish ultimately. My brain is wired to work for you, and when you say, “and what do you think about this?” it feels good. They like me, I say.Oh, are you looking up co-dependency on the net yet? Don’t bother. I’m part of a co-dependent species and we need vast amounts of drugs when we don’t get our fix. You are as dependent on me as me to you, though you’d likely tap dance around admission. Personally, I don’t know who you are, nor does it matter. I’m talking to you more honestly than a lover will and only because we owe each other nothing. Nothing will be spared by lying. You might completely disagree, but we’ll disagree on what I truly meant, not tentative approximations.You pragmatists will want a sentence to add to your stockpiled clichés and summaries. We need you to listen and we need to listen to you. This isn’t to be filed under sentimentalism, but survival tips.To the lucky who have always known that there is no happiness except for the momentary lapses of reason where people stop trying to live and just reach out to survive, a slap in the face for not explaining that all you wanted was to listen. To those that didn’t , a punch in the teeth so that you might become angry and tell me what you think, and not what you think I should think you think.This is another type of joke, fella’s. One that isn’t funny.Ja