The Cob and Log Hampster Wheel

  Lately, I’ve been telling a lot of stories, and I worry that I appear to people as an annoying vendor of tall tales and exaggerated claims.  And while it’s true that I have a flair for theatrics as well as a self-importance that propels me to build each story into a monument of entertaining words and themes (like this blog, for example), it’s also true that all of the stories that I tell really did happen.   But they sound so made up sometimes!  "Oh, some guy I saw in a film once offered me $10,000 for my eggs" and then a few hours later, "I ate lunch with Carlos Santana when I worked on Dave Matthews Band Tour," and then a few hours later, "So, this one time, when I was living in this city that you had no idea I  ever lived in even though you’ve known me for years…and I ate a bunch of mushrooms and danced on a table."   I feel like someone eventually has to be like, "Wait a minute. Is this for real," and of course it is.  Especially since my aversion to lying is so deep that I once wrote an apology letter to a St Vincent de Paul store from which I had stolen a poodle-shaped brooch.

When I was in high school, I remember very pompously making a choice that I wanted to be a writer. It made sense to me that the best way to do that would be to live an interesting life, and thus have things to write about.  I did not back down from the challenge that I have given myself, and sometimes I can hardly beleive myself some of the stories that I tell. 

So, anyway, rather than simply running a constant Two Truths and a Lie kind of story-telling gambit, I keep telling myself that these stories need to get written down.  It’s not that I’m being vain (well, maybe I am), but that sometimes I wonder what would happen with this information.

But I also realize that in many ways, this is still me showboating.   All of us have stories — why should mine be told with greater vigor or committed to paper?   Or why should our stories be told at all? Other than passing entertainment, why am I always trying to get all of these details to fit into word containers to convey a certain spark of something to everyone else? It’s like I always wish that I could just show everyone a movie of the time that we were chased down the highway in rural Oregon by an angry gas station owner over a broken wooden eyeglasses holder (and we were all wearing Dolphin shorts and leg warmers).  Or that I could just take a stroll with you back to the time that my former partner and I tried out for one of those reality dating shows where they tell you to bicker with your partner while you discuss how hot the blind date you went on was.   I guess it’s just symptomatic of my affinity for really living communally (I want all your stories as much as I want you to have mine), but perhaps it’s just a bizarre impulse.

I dont’ know. I think I kind of just wanted to write this because I was tired of looking at that post about my grandmother’s funeral. I’ve processed that, moved on, and am now setting about writing down the stories of Girl Scout Camp 2002 and the game of Never Have I Ever that went awry!

Oh, yes. P.S.  another reason that I tell so many stories is because my stories are fucking awesome!!  yeah, bitches!

This entry was posted on 週三, 六月 28th, 2006 at 9:10 上午 and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.