I admit it, I started smoking because I thought it was cool and then got addicted and now do it because I can't stop. I have, indeed, tenderized the poultry more than 7 times in a week on at least three different points during my adolescence (probably more). I don't actually think The Great Gatsby is that amazing a novel, and don't really get why it's praised as the best ever. I've read Camus while smoking a pipe in the bathtub. I'm a complete hipster/nihilist. I also admit that I am only somewhat ashamed of one of these. Your turn!
I admit that the only reason I draw my characters on MS paint is just to see my male characters topless. Am I ashamed? No. No, I am not.
I admit that I think about the story I'm writing more then anything else. I mean anything else. Bad thing? Probably. Do I care? Usually not.
I admit to being ashamed of having no interest in anything these days except laying low until springtime fools us once again that another year will unfold as beautifully as the one before along with the pungent smell of the warm earth thawing accompanied by the sweet smell of budding trees. I admit that I have been pretending to be interested in a bunch of trivialities. There are a lot of people my age which occupy my latest entourage who see objects as meaningful in their lives lately. I realize and understand that most of us 50 + farts have already resigned to these times. So we talk about snowmobiles, boats, cars, movies, video games, new apps, point cards, getaway trips to Cuba plus all the fascinating stuff we read on the web and repeat it as if we were having some kind of revelation as being brilliant and thoughtful beings. So I smile, I make jokes and hope that this will get me to springtime in one piece without feeling like a hypocrite. I admit to being ashamed of having gotten this far without any real important reason beyond wanting to accomplish shit. I am ashamed that my goals are mostly intrinsic in value and have somehow kept me alive for this long. I admit that I still find all women beautiful. Yes, all with varying degrees of beauty. I admit cowardice in not wanting to admit the truth as to what Hunter Thompson said -- that hanging on to life after 50 is simply being greedy.
Post 50 existential winter bluesies eh. I find trivialising and head in the sand to be most remedial. Dare you to mix things up a bit... @Albeit ^ Let that be your script for the TV interview you say you're due to do shortly. Follow it with 'Here's Tom with the weather.'
Thank you @SethLoki - appreciate the sage advice and your understanding of that state of being. Trivializing the emptiness is a good defense. Laying low as to not engage the havoc that lies beneath the surface is also wise at this stage. Like that very much.
I haven't got a clue what I'm doing most of the time. This doubles for my writing. Confessions are not really my thing since. It make me want to lie. Two lines above rings true, though. I really don't know what the hell I'm doing!
I confess that I have been listening to lo-fi hip hop quite a bit recently. It's just so perfect for putting on in the background while you're doing other things. I'm not really ashamed, but I know there are better things I could be listening to
What is there to confess when everybody already knows? (Though I seem to be going through a depression mixed with hope.)
When I was going to school in the US, I didn't have health insurance, so in order to get free regular STI testing, I signed up to become a sperm donor. I donated three times a week for a period of 6 months and last time I was in touch with the clinic to update my files, I had a potential of 15 or so biological children running around down there.
Very resourceful! That's actually kind of brilliant, @The Dapper Hooligan. -------------------------------- OK, I'll play: Confession: I'm really kinda missing the guy I wrote about in The Happiness Thread yesterday. Four hour phone conversations...Same obscure favorite song...Damn and blast you, Timing! Confession #2: I loved him more in that short time than I loved the Ex in our few years. Ugh. That sounds awful, but it's true. He raised my standards.
I admit to engaging in sex simply to see if I'd like it. (I do not and I won't be engaging in sex ever again.) I admit to disliking most people I run across and that I judge harshly at times. I dislike a great amount of classics like Gone with the Wind, The Great Gatsby, and Pride and Prejudice. I admit to highly disliking straight sex scenes and that I won't read, or watch, anything that has an abundance of them. I prefer my dreams and fantasies to real life. I also admit to having what I call "time dysphoria". I literally feel like I was born in the wrong century and it kills me to know that this modern age will never be what I need it to be.
I admit that I really have a problem with TV *gasp* I don't really know why either. Maybe because it's not really productive? I'm not saying I don't watch TV, I just don't watch very much of it. Even video games are more productive in my opinion, because you're making progress in them.
I confess I was terrified of the Easter Bunny. Just the thought of a human-sized bunny on two legs walking around in your home was enough to make me scared. I didn't believe in the Tooth Fairy because it has wings yet took on human form. Humans can't fly, and don't have wings. Santa? Well... I was always on the fence about it, but I never had my heart set on the idea that there was actually a Santa living on the North Pole.
Same!!! No shame! (Unless I get stuck, then I wonder what I'm doing with my life) Are we best friends who haven't met yet? --- I confess I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live a life without a "writer's brain," where I would just focus on reality rather than trying to tame and shape ideas to fit a structure that satisfies readers' innate understanding/expectations of "story."
I confess that when I was 14, I was going to chase after coyotes that had my cats up a tree. My "weapon/protection?" A shovel. Fortunately, they ran off before I got anywhere near them, and my cats were safe. Just goes to show that I should be in a city.
What do you want? I have gone through all the stages of death, and acceptance that it will happen at some point has rendered me in a sense less sympathetic to the other people around me (seems hell is really other people and their inability to see that you want to contribute). Less heavy a note, milk-bones don't taste bad per-se, they are like crusty bland bread baked with sand.
This. Okay here's a legit confession: Just last New Year's, I borrowed $150 from my Dad so that I could finance a trip to San Diego under the guise of going to the zoo. So, with two buddies, I drove to San Diego and ended up spending over $100 on weed and got a free weed beverage. I immediately felt really awful and didn't know what the hell I was thinking, but I'll blame part of it on peer pressure. We did end up going to the zoo, so. Anyway, I came back home and drank half the bottle and got high out of my mind. I got incredibly paranoid and found a way to connect everything I saw and thought to this bizarre 1984-inspired nightmare trip. Camera on my laptop? Holy shit. Texting language and internet lingo and general modern laziness with language? Newspeak. Etc. etc. I also got super guilty and told my Dad what I did and promised to pay him back, which I did, not that doing so excused the act. But there you go. Damn, I'm glad I got that off my chest.
The only explanation I can conjure to make that sentence even possible to be anything other than an outright deceptive fabrication is that you gave birth to a human being who you thought was a kitten and named it Catbert. And then, for some reason, decided to tell him/her about what I said thus hurting your child's feelings for no reason. Great job, Carly. Great. Job.
I think it would hurt their feelings more that you assume they wouldn't have the capacity to learn how to read what you said on their own.