Too Much Information

I was told this weekend by a bar boy that I share too much information. I was told I am an open book. There is no mystery to Lola. I disagreed. I also told him he was an emotionally immature asshole but that might have been the vodka tonics talking.

There have been times in my life when every single emotion I was feeling played across my face. If I was sad you knew it. If I was deliriously happy you knew it. If I wanted to punch you in the face you knew it. However, I have also been closed up. A big "fuck you" force field has surrounded me. (Maybe it still does.) Maybe this makes me schizophrenic or maybe it just makes me an enigma. I prefer enigma.

The Boy used to say I had big brick walls built up. I was hard to read. Hard to get to know. The word guarded was thrown around an awful lot. I was a toughy and he wanted a powder puffy. (Jesus, did I really cry buckets of tears over this person?) He said it took forever to figure out what I was thinking or feeling. How about asking some fucking questions genius? He was always trying to get inside. The problem was he tried the wrong approach. You can't manipulate me or try to figure me out by just observing me. You have to ask the questions and take the time to hear what I am saying. Listen, just fucking listen to the words coming out of my mouth.

The bar boy asked questions. Since I had a few drinks in me the "fuck you" force field was not engaged. I answered. I've always been the type to answer any question I am asked. Well I always answer questions if you aren't annoying the fuck out of me. I always answer truthfully and to the best of my ability. He asked me questions. He wasn't annoying me yet so I answered. What was I suppose to do? Play coy and bat my eyelashes? Not answer the questions? Make him work harder? Now before you suggest that maybe I talked to much or shared to much, I really only gave the bare bones answers. I certainly didn't give an hour long dissertation to answer his questions. I even asked questions and he answered. I listened. He talked about himself way more than I talked about myself, yet I'm the one with no mystery.

When my friends and I were leaving to hit another place the weekend boy and his playboy friend asked to come with us. I said, "Sure come on. It'll be fun." He asked where we were headed. I said, "That's the real mystery."