I read 50 books last year, moved to a $600 apartment in Seattle, might be entering early stages of alcoholism, but I haven’t wanted to die for a while. The alcohol part might be a slight over-exaggeration, but if it is true, then maybe you shouldn’t take my work on it y’know?

Trying to do what is essentially public journaling is a very strange exercise in honesty vs. restraint. Hell, I’m barely honest to myself, why would I be honest to you? Either way, I think I want to try honesty. Sometimes a lie makes you feel like the version of yourself you should’ve been.

Until this past Monday, I’d been couch surfing with a friend for two months (hence the $600 Seattle apartment I just moved in to). One weekend, my friend J was out of town and I had someone over for a hookup. I was horny, I felt bad, and I wanted to make myself feel worse. Or maybe it was trying to give a reason to feeling bad, because just feeling bad for no reason doesn’t make me a victim, a martyr, a sympathetic character for me to feel for. Anyways, I got drunk with my buddy’s girlfriend a few days later, and I brought it up, we had a good time laughing about it. Seemingly, it ends up coming up between them, and J was a little uncomfortable I had someone over without ever running it by him if that was an ok thing to do.

My instinct right now is to get defensive. I want to tell you that they had joked weeks prior about wanting me to find a hookup, about helping me find someone, and that due to this, me having someone over was clearly assumed above board by all.

First, it wasn’t. I should have asked beforehand how he felt about me having people over. Second, to alleviate any wrongdoing in my own psyche, I jump pretty quickly to viewing this as a low-stakes “who cares?” kind of problem. So, I lied.

“I didn’t have anyone over? Oh, I remember that conversation her and I had, but we were so drunk and it must’ve been a misunderstanding. I have hooked up with people since being here, but not at your place. I wouldn’t even feel comfortable doing that!”.

I stared to type out just now something about not knowing why, but that’s just more lying to myself. I was afraid of my friend being mad at me for doing something inconsiderate. My wonderful, empathetic, deeply forgiving friend who would not have cared by the next day. His girlfriend and I are friends, but admittedly only really through him, and in the name of full transparency? I knew he would believe me, and that she wouldn’t.

Such a small, largely unimportant social faux pas I committed. Maybe it’s ego, maybe it’s fear, maybe it was just cruel, but I couldn’t take the accountability. Me and her haven’t talked since, and we probably won’t. He believed me, and we’re ok now.

That story has happened a hundred times over my life. Most often it’s a white lie here or there, and rarely ever as seemingly calculated as that story comes across. I’ve only been “caught out” a time or two, here and there.

First impressions are everything, we judge books by their cover, and this whole thing is leading you towards a pretty negative picture of myself. That’s fair. I don’t like the picture it paints either. But I haven’t wanted to die for a while.

I’m loved. I’m kind. I’m respected, and kind, and intelligent, and capable of cruelty, and constantly make choices I don’t agree with, and hurt others for no good reason other than it’s easier. I wanted to show you the bad part first because when I think of myself it’s the only part I think of. It always has been.

I want to write about my bad choices. I want to write about my good ones too. I want to talk about the ugliness I see within and the beauty I often can’t. This may be a grand gesture towards obvious validation seeking, that’s pretty damn clear. But if this is seen by anyone, all I can ask is if you can try to be honest too.