All You Can Be

I have no clue what I am. I know what people think I am. Some think I'm a career man, a computer consultant of sorts. Others feel I'm a floater, some kind of free thinker they can't reign in.

To my parents... To my parents... My parents feel I'm, cripes I'm not sure about my folks. I assume they're biased either way. My mother surely loves and extols everything publicly consumable about my existence, the darker bits invisible. I could do a line of coke in front of her without her noticing.

I plan on being equally blind with my children. Actually, no I don't. I plan on being more accepting, more willing to take the bad and the good. Cripes I feel like some AA ad at this point. Let's face it, I don't know what my parent's are willing to accept about my reality. I really don't give them the chance. I protect them from the darker bits and then blame them when they happen to see some of them. It's delusional on my part.

I don't have the time, energy, capacity, or ability to be everything people think I am. Can you imagine if I truly was all those things? Someone said to me just two nights ago, "I didn't know you were a writer?" My instinct, barely held back, was to agree. I didn't know I was a writer either, but that's because I know I'm not. To some people I'm a talented hockey player. To others I'm a burden on the ice. As long as I can have a nap at some point today then I'll be whatever the hell you want.