So. I am organizing my thoughts in a little white text box. Sometimes that helps. If I'm smart, I'll erase it when I'm done, and no one will ever know. That way, the problem won't get any worse. Or, wait. Is this maybe one of those things that won't get better either?

Two months ago, he said he couldn't make the car payment that month. I mentioned this in the journal. That entry is the only time the subject has come up in here. I really don't want to talk about him behind his back. And I thought I was doing so well. Once, I bitched about the car payment. I made a deliberate, conscious effort to NOT mention, ever, The Big Thing that was really messing with me for a while. I am perfectly aware of what I could be doing. If I chose, I could write 1000 entries about exactly how I feel about everything. If I put my mind to it, I could probably make all of you hate him. I don't want to do that. I'm not that person. But, that one time, I was freaking out, so I wrote.

Last night, he came over. It was actually a pretty good visit, but then, before he left, I asked about the car payment. He said his paycheck for the last two weeks was $174. The car payment is $200.

I started crying. I now have a (very slim) chance of getting the hell out of this life. It absolutely hinges on me somehow saving $1000 by September. (OK, it also probably hinges on me actually getting the job, but let's not complicate this. Even if I am hired, I can't move without money.) If I'm paying for the car instead, that means I'll be stuck here forfuckingever, oh and look, here's me once again wussing out and not even mentioning how maybe I should get to drive the car if I'm the one paying for it, I hate everything.

I didn't say any of this. He left. I slammed a door as hard as I could, probably freaking out the roommate and his girlfriend. I don't usually do things like that.

Maybe a half hour later, he came back. He signed over his entire paycheck to me, because he didn't want me to say anything bad about him in my diary again. AAARGH! There's so much fucked up right there I don't even know where to start.

I told him he didn't have to sign over his paycheck. I told him he shouldn't do it. As long as he could swear he'd have the $$ in two weeks, that's fine. Now, he'll have no money at all, and his roommates and a dozen other people he owes money to will be pissed. I'm trying to be rational about this. I do in fact need the money. He did promise to get it to me every month. I should not feel guilty about this. But, shit. Shit shit shitty shit shit. And also, shit.

So, yeah. For those of you playing along at home, everything is just fine and dandy with the car now, so would you all please stop bugging him about it. That's really the part that kept me awake most of last night. I reread that particular entry. I didn't even say anything that bad. But he was all, "Every single person I know yells at me every time you write about me in your diary!"

Let me restate, I really don't think I've slammed him that much. So where are you people getting your information from? What exactly did you tell him? Yes, I was upset. But that doesn't mean I need or want everyone in town to say the things I CHOSE not to say. (By the way, this is exactly why there never was an entry about her. She's a friend of mine, and I knew anything I wrote about her would get horribly blown out of proportion.) I am trying so hard to be mature and decent about all this, and the one time I slipped up, apparently the Taus decided to lynch him for it.

And then I tried to think about it logically, and my brain nearly exploded. Here's the most coherent parts of it:

1) I have an online journal. Every single word I write can be read by anyone on the planet. I am very aware of this, so I usually try to keep it fun. 99 entries out of 100, the person cast in the worst light by the stuff I write is me. I can't always do that. I wish I could, but I am nowhere near a saint. Sometimes, I get pissed off.

2) The thing about a journal is, it's all about what I'm thinking. It's pretty intimate. And so you read it, and now you maybe know something about me that even people I talked to in person today don't know. And sometimes, I say things in here I definitely wouldn't have admitted to your face. Again, I try to keep as much of a rein on that sort of thing as I can, but I'm only human.

3) A whole horde of people I know in real life read my stuff. I read theirs too. There are 10 or so people I only know as well as I do because of what they write in their journals. This is, generally speaking, a good thing. But it makes the whole intimacy dynamic that much funkier.

So, what does all that mean? When I write something here, it becomes public access. I can accept that. I thought I already understood the implications, but now that I see the sort of effects even saying a little bit can have, I'll be even more careful.

But, if I told you something in person, would you automatically assume that meant you could talk about it with everyone else? I know there's a difference, but maybe there shouldn't be. Can I even ask you to respect my privacy, if I clearly put so little value on it that I'll post my life online? I don't even know.

***

I just happened to glance at my guestbook right now. There was one confusing message. After I thought about it a little, I found someone else's guestbook, and all became clear.

Anon, shut the FUCK up. This is a difficult enough situation already, thanks. I do not need random snide attacks from the peanut gallery to help it get even worse. Honestly, people. Don't make me shut my journal down. I fucking need this.

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