I have acquired this bad habit of keeping secrets. Maybe I don’t trust people. Maybe I don’t have close friends. Maybe I’m ashamed of my actions.
I tell each friend one story. There are enough stories for each friend to have one story. One story encompasses sometimes a few minutes, sometimes several hours, sometimes a few days. I tell the story but not more because that would give away too much information. As if someone is logging how I spend each hour of my life.
My life isn’t particularly interesting. I don’t have many friends. But that makes everything so much more private. I don’t have friends who tell other friends my stories, mostly because they aren’t so interesting.
I’m not obligated to tell others about how I spend time when not with them, but in a way I think it keeps you good and level-headed. I’ve been so reckless this summer. On one hand, I’m thankful that I had this experience during the summer when it’s acceptable to be ignorant to consequences. On the other hand, when is it ever acceptable to ignore potential negative consequences?
I realized that it’s bad. It’s bad to have secrets. It’s bad to keep information hidden. It’s bad to have to prevent others from knowing about you. Judgment is good in a sense. Expectations keep you sober and along a straight-edge to some extent. A sense of conformity to rules can be positive.
I want to get away without having to adorn any scarlet letters. I guess the irresponsible behavior must stop here and now.