Campfyre Stories

… is that you have to live up to it all the time or you’ll lose it.

I have this fabulous story that I want to tell you.  It’s incredibly funny and rather disturbing, but I was asked "Don’t tell [someone who reads this blog]" and I promised I wouldn’t.  Which sucks.  Because I really want to tell this story and not have to wait (probably) 6 months before the "secret" (such as it is) gets out and I am free to talk about it.

I have a lot of those.  I have some blackmail-worthy information on one of my friends, which I would never actually use against her, but it’s fun to threaten.  I have shared experiences that would lose some measure of sweetness in being shared with others, or at least shared en mass, such as by blogging.  I have stories that don’t belong to me and don’t relate to me, so I don’t feel comfortable telling them…  at least yet, but more on that some other time.

I suppose that’s part of the problem with blogging.  When you can’t actually tell stories because you’ll betray a trust.  There are a large number of people who would never see this blog, or at least not before whatever "don’t tell" information did actually get to them.  There are many stories where one can change the names and details in order to grant that anonymity to the subject of the story…  this is not one of those cases.

What can I tell you instead?  All other events either pale in comparison or fall into the category of "not for public consumption".  I’m trying to make a point to write public entries at least as often as I write the private ones, because I know there are people who read my blog and haven’t asked for the password.

Shall I tell you about the near-constant parade of people through my apartment that has resulted in me finding some very interesting things left behind?  "What do you want me to do with your bra?" is a strange question for one straight woman to ask another and it’s not the least of the questions I’ve had to ask or answers I’ve gotten.  Shall I complain of physical ailments and how I never get sick, except when I do, and then it’s with a vengeance?  Shall I tell stories that don’t belong to me, of Spawn or the Child of Chaos?  Probably not, since the last time I told one of Spawn’s stories (not on the blog, but on the phone) he said to me, "You weren’t there, Mom.  You don’t really know."  Ouch.

I have a couple of posts that are in the works.  By that I mean they’re in my head and I’m still trying to figure out the phrasing.  I have a couple that have been scrapped after the events of the last month (oh my gods, has it really been a MONTH?), because my outlook is different.  What’s important now is not the same as what was important then.

I suppose instead of telling tales I’m not supposed to share, I’ll just talk about nothing really for a while and then wrap it up.  The promises I make to myself of what I’m going to write are starting to nag at me, so I really should start on that.  In the meantime, at least I’ve written something.