Ok I have a confession. A deep dark confession.

I feel like after the first few months of blogging I have revealed all the interesting thoughts, desires, experiences (I would feel comfortable sharing with an anonymous reader).

I've told you, gentle reader, of my:
parallel life with Norman Rockwell paintings,
my disdain for Telemundo,
emulation of Florence King--a southern humorist and misanthrope,
First experience with the sea,
fondness of quoting obscure Whitman,
my dreams in which I lead a field of cheerleaders to South Pacific's "gonna wash that man right otta my hair"

But now all I have to talk about is how I spend 65+ a week at work, run to the gym or FAB, and then climb into bed so I can wake up and do the same thing the next day. Starting at 6:00AM.

If there’s anything more pathetic than a uninteresting person—it’s a uninteresting person trying hard to be witty or interesting. “I’m quirky. Like me!” (pleading) “Really—I’m quirky and interesting.”

I mean, I wear little nerd glasses, I watch several Rag-tag films a month, I read Trends in Genetics and practice bel canto arias in my free time. Why do I feel so bland?

Think Mildred from Of Human Bondage.

So, here it is: the one shred of a tidbit of something about me no one else knows:

Each week when I read postsecret, I try to pick out which ones might apply to me. I think of it as a horoscope of sorts. This week’s checklist:

Acceptance
Desperation
Cynicism

But the one that fits me best is: