Truth.

Did you ever play truth or dare as a kid?

At sleep overs, all your friends sitting in a circle, an empty soda bottle in the center, the building anxiety over who it would land on next, trying to decide ahead of time - just in case it landed on you - if you'd pick truth or dare.

When we were little, we all picked dare.

It was exciting, being dared to do something crazy. Run outside with no pants on and scream "I LOVE BUTTER!" at the top of your lungs. Put an ice cube in your bra and keep it there for 30 seconds. Call the boy you have a crush on and ask him something weird, or worse: tell him you like him.

Hearts pounding, hands sweating, hoping our friends would be kind and not make us do anything truly awful {which they never were}, we always picked dare.

I mean, what great truths did we have to reveal when we were 10 anyway?

I wet the bed once?

I steal cookies?

Sometimes I wonder if 5th grade is all it was cracked up to be?

No.

We had nothing.

As I got older, the game was still played, but usually between me and a girlfriend who was staying over, laying in bed in the dark talking until we fell asleep. And we always picked truth,

Maybe we played to pass the time.

Maybe we played because it was a good veil under which we could ask personal questions without being nosy.

Maybe we played because we had questions we secretly wanted to be asked. Truths we secretly wanted to share, but didn't know how.

So we opened the door. The rules were, after all, that they could ask anything and you had to answer honestly.

It's like what psychiatrists always say about having a journal: you're writing it because you want someone to read it. You want it to be found, read through and known about. You want to share yourself, you just don't know how to come out and do it.

Playing truth or dare did it for us.

Want to hear my truth?

Sometimes I don't know what I'm doing, here. I worry about how I'm raising the kids, if I'm doing a good enough job, what I'll be dealing with when they're 18. What issues they'll have that I know will be my fault. I don't know if I'm enough.

Sometimes I'm equal parts scared of, excited about and apathetic toward the future. It's very confusing.

Sometimes I wish mistakes were more easily forgotten. I wish that at some point people stopped seeing your poor choices when they looked at you. Like every day when we woke up, we forgot all the sins of the day before, and we only remembered what was good, what was real, what was intentional.

I fucking hate mopping.

I un-friended someone on Facebook the other day for posting too many political statuses and pictures of Obama. Judge me, I don't care. I don't feel bad about it at all. 

When I was little, I used to break the candy bars that are in those metal racks in the check out line. I wouldn't break the wrapper, so nobody would know until they bought it and opened it and saw their candy bar was fatally decapitated. I don't know why I did it. I'd just stand there and squeeze them until they snapped in half, then I'd move on to another one, seeing how many I could break before we were done checking out and paying for our groceries.

I still feel bad for all the people who got broken candy bars.

Anyway, your turn. Truth or Dare?

If You Really Knew Me

I originally saw this here {and then about a million other bloggy places} and I'm low on post ideas, so here you are.

If you really knew me....

If you really knew me you'd know that I am not to be trusted around breakfast meats, such as bacon or sausage. I will eat an entire pan of it if left to my own devices.

You'd know that Sleepless in Seattle and When Harry Met Sally are my two favorite movies, even though I tell people it's something more intelligent and sophisticated.

Judge me.

You'd know that truly good iced coffee is my weakness. Second only to kisses on my neck and pictures of black bears.

You'd know I'm highly inappropriate.

{but a super good time}

You'd know that I hate the color yellow in almost every shade, especially mustard. 

This new trend of mustard and gray themed outfits, furniture, home decor and accessories is not pleasing me.

You'd know I'm terrified of the dark, insects, strange illnesses, ladders, ventriloquist dummies, being murdered and my car exploding.

I know. Weird.

You'd know that I'm a crier. You probably actually already know this. I cry over the weirdest things, and sometimes just sitting around watching TV my mind can wander into strange enough territories to make me cry.

I cried through like the whole first season of Grey's Anatomy.

You'd know that I cannot, I mean CANNOT watch TV shows or movies that involve themes about hurting/abusing/killing children. Law and Order SVU is one of my favorite shows, but the episodes about kids? Not a chance. I still haven't {and will never} see Shutter Island for this reason. When themes like that come up, I instantly start sobbing and have a massive panic attack.

You'd know I cannot whistle, cross my eyes or hula hoop.

If you really knew me you'd know that in 5th grade I told one of my friends that I couldn't be her friend anymore because she sneezed too loud. I was serious, and I still don't regret it.
It was like a scream/sneeze.

You'd know that I hate taking out the trash. More than any other chore in the world. Seriously.

You'd know that I don't like touching toilet water, I take a super hot shower every night before bed in order to sleep, and the sound of rain and cloudy gray days make me all kinds of happy and sentimental. 

You'd know I actually didn't learn to cook decently until well after I moved out on my own. My fridge in my first apartment had nothing but green olives, coco pebbles cereal and Totino's pizzas in it.

You'd know that new socks and underwear make me so happy that I put them on as soon as I get home. First thing. 

You'd know that I like the guy to drive if I go anywhere with anyone of the male persuasion.

What would I know about you if I knew you?

Things I'm Afraid to Tell You

I'm jumping on the Blogger bandwagon big time with Things I'm Scared to Tell You.

Here goes. 

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I have a shit ton of weird ass phobias. 

I'm not sure I would call them all phobias, most of them just fears. But if you saw the way I behave about them you'd probably call them phobias.

Ventriloquist dummies, obscure diseases, sitting with my back to an open room {especially a dark open room} virtually any sound that I hear at night when I'm home alone, aneurysms, scorpions and taking medicines I've never had before.

I think that's the short list.

But I'm not afraid of heights, clowns, or Ryan Seacrest. Go figure.

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The smell of meatloaf cooking makes me sad.

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I don't shower every day unless there's some reason to, like a bird shit on me, or I feel especially gross. I'm more of an every other day....or even every couple days kind of person.

I know. That's truly disgusting.

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I have an ex-boyfriend's initials tattooed on my stomach.

I plan on getting them removed!

But still, they're there.

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I have a tendency to be kind of judgmental. 

I usually call it something bullshitty like "being good at reading people" or whatever, but really it is what it is, and if I'm being honest it's judging. I don't like this about myself, at all really, and I've been working on it, I promise.

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I have a history of getting fired a lot.

I have a history of getting bored/hating the jobs I take, so I end up slacking off and developing a shit attitude and missing work and blah blah blah until I get fired, because I'm too much of a pussy to just quit.

I plan on being at my current job for quite a while, and that's honestly the first time I've ever said that.

Well, at least the first time I've ever said that and meant it.

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I'm scared that Bill will die before me.

I'm even more afraid that Bill will die before me, before I'm a wrinkly old lady.

I'm scared I'll lose him when I have too many years left to sit around and miss him.

I've never had that fear about anyone I dated before.

I mean, I know we'll all die, and if I thought about them dying it made me sad, but when I think about Bill dying before me I can't stand the thought of being so permanently without him.

I pretty much have to die first, or at least keep him alive until I'm so old that I don't remember who he is when he dies anyway, and I only have a couple more years left to sit around and be confused about it.

I know it's morbid, but I think loving someone a lot kind of brings out those morbid fears more than other things do.

Like how we never think about what would happen if we died until we have kids, and have to think about what would happen to them.

That sort of thing.

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What are you afraid to tell me?