The Everlasting Gobstopper

From one of my favorite movies, Almost Famous:

Sweet? Where do you get off? Where do you get sweet? I am dark and mysterious, and I am pissed off! I could be very dangerous to all of you! And you should know that about me... I am the enemy!

The thing about introverts is we don't casually open up to people. Try cracking the shell on this guy. I dare you. Chomp down hard, baby, and I'll wave, grinning, as you rub that cheek of yours, nursing chipped teeth and hard feelings; I am an everlasting gobstopper. But don't take it personally. It's not that I don't try. Oh I've tried. But my ways of opening up are ninja-subtle, which, in hard times, can have its disadvantages.

I never claimed to be a smart introvert--just a talented one.

But it's all worth it if, in the end, it means the complete and utter avoidance of bared insecurity. It was a tough lesson, but a lesson learned nonetheless. Oh look at me, spouting nonsense again. Or am I? Who knows? Well, that's sort of the point.

You don't. You don't know the half of it. I don't care who you are, you don't know the half of it. Maybe a third here, or a quarter there--or some other fraction if it--but if you think you've gained enough inside four-one-one to know the half of it, think again. Actually, it's best not to think on it at all. Go about your lives and give it not another thought. This is not a cry for help.

Those days are over, for now.

Get me liquored up. Shoot my veins with sodium pentothal. Headlock me and dole out nuggies until my skull aches and your knuckles bleed. These methods do not hold the key to this man's vault (unless we're talking about one masterful nuggie giver). No, the vault is forever closed, and, if that pain inside is any indication, I might have mistakenly swallowed the key. So unless you're willing to miniaturize yourself and select a sincerely wise guise -- such as a honeycomb, or a pepperoni -- in order to enter my innards (specifically, my digestive tract) and find that key, count yourself amongst the countless others drifting through the dark fog in which I shroud my feelings.

It's a self-defense thing. Lesson learned, all that.

Not that what I think or feel matters much in the grand scheme of things. I've many negative characteristics--such as pessimism--but conceit is not one of them. Nor do I feel a sense of pride, or accomplishment, for possessing this hard-exterior/heart-of-gold persona; it's more or less what God made me, though relatively recent events in my life have only served to harden this mold He crafted.

Some of you, dear readership, may have an inkling into this madness I'm scribbling on about (if one can scribble on a word processor. Okay, call it e-scribbling). Honestly, I only started this post because I've vowed to keep this blog up-to-date and couldn't think of another topic. It's ironic, since this post doesn't really have a topic. If it does, no one will be able to figure it out. You might have your guesses, and your guesses might hold pieces of the answer. But only pieces. Not even half the pieces.

(Suddenly I'm craving Reese's Pieces. This damn diet will be the end of me.)

I am dark and mysterious. Well, okay: I'm pasty white and mysterious. Whatever. My extreme Caucasity hasn't got--here comes an obscure Mr. Show quote--"shit to do with dick". But anyway, I'm here. Writing this. I've written, including this, over two-thousand words tonight (about 1400 in fiction prose), which is a start, though sometimes it always seems to be the beginning of the end with me.

I am sleepy. I am mysterious.

I am Sasquatch.

I am going...going...gone.