I do second-guess myself. I mean, I'm at the gym exercising and all of a sudden I'm struck with a deep horror: What the hell am I doing sharing all this wacky personal information about myself on the net? Am I on crack? When I got home, I had to edit one entry slightly because the words I'd used were lodged like a fish-hook in my brain and I couldn't shake loose the sense that the nuances would be overwhelmed by the surface shock of what I was saying.
I thought about taking out the entry. Still, why? I'm a writer. I write goofy shit. Terms that get slung around like "TMI" are more often than not just a defensive tittering way to disavow things that unnerve us and reveal us as human animals. I mean, LiveJournal isn't a pearls-and-pantyhose tea party where one fart can mortify the proceedings. This is an opt-in venue--you have to seek out a journaler to read the wack-ass crap they're rattling on about.
Still, I sometimes feel dubious about things I've written. I forget that my thoughts, which might seem banal in, say, a jaded literary circle, could seem freakish to other audiences. Freakish in a bad way, not a good. Also, there have been times when people have shared stuff with me that made me think, "I really didn't need to know that about you." So, you know, I'd hate to think--hate to feel--that I'd flensed my skin off and offered a big handful of ick to people. Raw. More naked than naked. Basically, what it comes down to, I don't want people to laugh at me. Normal enough. I'm not so polished that it all slides off. Actually, I'm emotional velcro.
And now I need to stop worrying myself and eat.