Drunkman Poorman

I’ve been wondering about what you tell people, how you tell people. This blog is where I am most open, something that makes sense until you think about it. Why should random strangers online know me better than people I see daily? I tend to gravitate toward strangers. Strangers, contrary to childhood teachings, are safe. Not just any strangers, the kind of strangers who are complete strangers. The faceless stranger with no name. Once I know your name and face, and once I have seen the way your face crinkles when it smiles, it is already too real. It is already a person. People scare me, I have never been able to trust anyone with information in real life. But ask me to text you the nuclear launch codes and I would happily comply. I’ll text a person a little scrap of knowledge, then get embarrassed when they bring it up in real life. For some reason I really cannot open up to friends.

Sometimes, I just want to get drunk and live on a street corner, because then, at least,  passersby will look down and say “Poor man.” And perhaps I will feel better, or maybe they just said the truth.