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I've known Valancy for most of my life, and fairly intimately for the past five years at least; I think it would be fair to say that I know her as well as it is possible to know a person. This doesn't mean that I always read her correctly, or have the capability to predict her actions with full accuracy, but I can normally understand why she does the things she does.

There are some actions, however, which mystify me -- like putting my sweater in my sock drawer, my pajamas with my dress shirts, and my jewelry with my hair elastics. Admittedly, all of these classifications have a certain inescapable logic, which my own scattered organizational scheme might lack; but I cannot help but wonder if this is a subtle message that I should be more tidy or suffer the consequences.

I will say this, though: it made me incredibly happy to see her car when I pulled into the parking lot. I wasn't expecting it.

All Right, All Right, I *Get* it Already

[warning: this entry is flawed]

Since my "hey, I guess I'm a relatively private person" realization, I have received a number of testamonies:

Valancy: Seriously? You didn't know that?

Patrick: ::cracks up:: Romie, of course you're a private person! I'm your best friend -- I was in love with you for ages -- we sometimes live together -- and I can't even tell when you're crushingly depressed! I think it's safe to say both that you're a private person and that you're a remarkably good actor.

Kristina: ::laughs for at least a minute:: Romie, you never, ever talk about yourself. Conversations with you consist almost entirely of questions, advice, and flights of fancy. I think the only reason I ever have any idea of what's going on in your life is that we only see each other once every few months, and you are therefore required to fill me in on at least the basics.

Johnny: [considerably prior to the issue coming up] I've been reading your journal for six months, and I still have no idea who you are.

Thomas: [some years prior] No matter how long I know you, I think you will always be a complete mystery to me.

Raine: [again, some years prior] For a year, I was your girlfriend and constant companion, and I still don't even know how you like to dress. Did you deliberately hide your identity?



I don't understand how to be any more open than I am. On the one hand, I know that disclosure fosters intimacy -- is, in fact, neccessary for the deepening of social relationships; on the other hand. . .

On the other hand, I know about me, and so I'm more interested in hearing about other people.

On the other hand, very few have made the effort to find out about me; most seem happier when they're the ones talking.

On the other hand, I've been unhappy a lot of my life, and people seem uncomfortable when I tell them so.

Of course, the reason I'm unhappy is that I'm almost always lonely. (It's easier when I'm travelling, but not by enough, and it's a hell of a lot easier when I'm around other people.)

I'm tired of irony; it hurts like a thousand nails lodged in my breastbone.

The following seems unrelated, but it isn't:

I'm a difficult person to cast in a play, because the audience will always watch me. Without fail, the audience will watch me, even if I'm in a bit part that I'm barely playing, and I have no lines. This translates to film, too. I'm complicated [not my word] enough that I'm never exactly a character; I'm always a person, a version of me, (and there are a lot of them). As a result, I'm the most interesting person on stage, automatically.