Suzi Moonlight

I mentioned in my explanation of this blog that I once wrote a book. I did. It was published. I wrote it under my pen name [insert pen name here]. It’s a collection of short stories, leaning towards speculative fiction. It wasn’t a vanity publishing, but my friend does own the company. My friend wanted a new book, but none of her authors had anything ready, so she asked me to put together something. I got to design the cover myself and the layout. The [unusual layout] was a little hard to do, but she pulled it off.

There are a few once things I can never post. There would be too many [blanks]. I once wrote a website [genre of webpage] to [can't even dance around it] that spawned numerous other [similar webpages]. Mine was first, and the Wayback Machine proves it. My best friend said I was crazy for making [that specific type of page to that specific thing], but the flood of copies proved I’m not… well, either that or there are a lot of other nutcases on the net. Oh, and no, it had nothing to do with bizarre culinary tastes of internet icons.

Incase you haven’t noticed, there are a few [blanks] in this blog. Everything in it is the truth, that’s why I’m a little vague on the specifics. Okay, everything is true, except my last name isn’t Moonlight, but is it really necessary to point that out?

I was once asked to write a short piece for [insert semi-famous magazine here] for an article about what people do on an average day. Some of the people were very famous. I am not. I sold my 15 minutes on eBay to an anonymous bidder. (Damn, I should really do that!) My piece was about being the tech for [my domain name] and things I do on the net.

No, I’m not famous. I just leave things out that people I know might find. Not like crazy stalkers, they all know my website. One of my friends is sure I have a blog somewhere. Problem is, I can’t lie. She knows I can’t lie. I’ve never had a good enough memory to be able to lie. I would get caught very, very easily. An hour later, they could ask me the same question, and I’d have no idea what I just told them.

It is very hard to get around answering, “You have a blog somewhere. I know you do.” Luckily, that wasn’t a question, so I answered it with, “You’re crazy. I blogged for years before it was even called blogging. Why would I go back to it now?” Unbelievably, she bought it. If she seriously wanted to know, she’d just ask me directly.

While I can’t lie, I can avoid a vague question. If the asker (whatever spellcheck, you don’t recognize the word ‘internet’ either) isn’t paying attention, this will work, and people often aren’t paying close enough attention. However, I find it entirely impossible to lie when the answer is ‘yes’ or ‘no’. I can think the answer I would like to say, but it won’t come out. The truth pops out, and there’s not stopping it. See, that’s the kind of thing I don’t want people who know me to find out. I could be put into awkward situations by anyone armed with that knowledge.

I recently saw a report about children lying. The report said, lying is part of the emotional development of humans. They learn emotions through lying. Learn to judge people’s reactions and guess what the person wants to hear.

If the report was right, look around at your friends. The highly emotional ones, those are the liars. The more reserved, they are the honest ones. Out of four of my friends, this holds true. They are the extremes. My other friends fall somewhere in the middle, not too emotional, not horrible liars. My one friend, who has no idea what truth is, is also the most emotional person I know.

My friends often comment on my… lack of emotions. I’m a little stoic but, oddly, I am also easily amused. So while I may not cry about something they would, they don’t get excited about the silly things I do. I can talk about an unusual bug like I saw the face of God, but that doesn’t count if you don’t cry when your dog gets hit by a car. I didn’t see the point. It wouldn’t bring the dog back. I was more concerned with how I was going to get him home to give him a proper burial. I had to console my friend. “It will be all right. He didn’t even know what hit him.” Everyone thought it was her dog.

Now, I’m afraid I’ve painted myself as a horrible monster who doesn’t care when her dog dies. I did care. I was sad about it, but there were details that needed to be taken care of at that moment. Which would be better, to sit on the curb and cry my eyes out, or get my dog out of the street, home, and buried? It would have been wrong to leave the dog lying there in the street and selfishly cry about it. He was a good dog. He deserved better.