adopted?

As if to reiterate the incestuous cast/cast of the blogosphere posited here, I’ve being tagged by both dreamlife and Taz to list “5 things people don’t know about you”.

I’ve already quantified my weirdness.

But seriously, what don’t you (you: the blog-hopper/the phantom commentateur/the one who googles hentai spaghetti) know about me? Are we (personal bloggers) not the over-revealers in this sphere that we’d otherwise avoid eye-contact with out there in the supra-http?
What more do you need to know?
Here I write my vices, the way my heart shatters and beats, the things I eat, the places I lose myself in, the people I can’t digest, the dreams that are just that eyelash-breadth out of reach, mortal quirks that amuse and the consistencies of the polyfilla that holds me in.
I blog, ergo sum.

But despite this, I guess there’ll always be 5 things more things you didn’t know about me until now:

1. I can do cartwheels, and sometimes I spin down the office corridor on palms and feet when I work late.
2. I enjoy my vices.
3. I am as vain as I am insecure.
4. Once when I was around 9, I karaoked (sp?) to Jailhouse Rock in front of a crowd of strangers at the Rand Easter Show.
5. There are 7 things you’ll never know about me. (because my mum reads this blog too)

I tag the fat kid who always gets picked last.

It’s the feeling you get when you come across an old diary. You wonder what foreign tongue dribbled its ink in slashes and dashes here; the ascenders and descenders wiggling in sanskrit-samba on the page. You hold the paper within sticking distance of your contact lenses, as if mere proximity will decipher this marriage of rambling thought and tactility. And this for the next page and each page after.
Strange, the stranger one becomes as years tack off.
Invite a you from every year to a party, expect the room to spin with the eclectic meld of personality and characters.

And it was like this when an email from the past dropped into my gmail.
Saaleha circa early 2006.
Evidently, this chick had some issues at the time.
And when I read what “I” wrote back then, one of the voices in my head riposted, “eh?”.
And the others guffawed when the memory-dam breached. “Oh. that.”
(Embarrassed silence amplified in the little-monarchy-in-my-head)

And the fifty-cent epiphany:
The things we lose sleep over now, are the things we won’t dream about in the future.
All will come to pass, even the issues that look set to fail us.