"All the Commotion…"-Kings Of Leon

"I liked this blog today. Clear, concise and easy to follow. Good Job Rob! "

Yeah, my fifth grade teacher reads my blog. Not really, but sometimes I wonder. It would explain the email my dad received the other day:

Robby does not play well with others. He shows a lack of self-control.

My dad just mailed me a print-out taped to a box of Depends. A note scrawled in special Dad print at the bottom of the E-mail said, "If they're good enough for a crazy astronaut, they're good enough for my son."

I emailed him back explaining that "self control" was not the same as "bladder control," but thanked him and asked if he'd at least use some kind of wrapping paper on the box next time he sent it. The mailman is still snickering.

"It's a waste of money, son."

It's a waste of something, Dad. I don't say that though. Dad's a great resource and I'd hate for that well to run dry. I get a lot more than adult diapers from him. I get a strong sense of cynicism too.

That's right. It's a long family tradition handed down from generation to generation. I get my elitism from my mom. It means that I'm always locked in a Moral Kombat with myself.

"Flawless Victory."

"No it's not! He gave up just so he could look better than me."

You should see what happens when the martyr complex plays too. Then there's the control freak who won't allow anybody else to play until he's drawn all the lines, and carved the rules in stone. Yeah, there's a lot of other stuff shaking around inside Rob. It turns Rob's head into a barroom brawl before he's even had the first beer. After the first beer, the brawl moves outside the mouth.

"What did you call me, punk?"

"I didn't. I'm rife with inner conflict. Forces within my ego are battling for control of the mortal coil…"

"Dude, that sucks."

"Tell me about it."

"You need another beer? A good cry? If you need a low self image, my ex girlfriend is over there in the corner. She's the blond making the pirate cry out of his good eye."

"Yeah, no. I'll be fine."

We all have a Samsonite carry-on of cranial companions. The inner voice choir is loud and brash. Sure you see the horror movies of the whispering madman inside the ear. If I have one, I can't hear him, because everybody else is so loud.

What's more now that I'm divorced I have a new voice in my head. MyEx has taken up a small cottage between Self Doubt and Self Loathing. I had tried to keep them separated by Blind Optimism, but MyEx just ate him as a snack while watching the Sopranos . Now she keeps her windows dark, and my joie de vivre is on the back of every mental milk carton. I think something's happened.

That's right. People who get close, get a voice. My dad, he's there. My fifth grade teacher isn't but my Freshman Lit. teacher is. So is anybody who gets close enough. Yeah, I try to keep the numbers down. Control Freak has hung a "Maximum Occupancy" sign and we're getting kinda crowded.

So, I'm learning to work with Rob's new head case of voices. When I was in fifth grade all was cool so long as I didn't run with scissors. In high school I wasn't allowed to run with a bad crowd. Now, I'm afraid to run at all.

What the hell?

I'm used to the clear blue. I'm used to smooth sailing. I'm used to life's pool. I'm a diver not a dipper. At least I was. Now I have to stop and look both ways or I'm treading yellow water.

"It sure got warm all of a sudden…"

Some things in life are returning to familiar waters. Somebody commented on another post of mine. One from last year. She said how the pain showed some of the inner Rob, the real Rob without the candy shell and the surrounding nuts.

It was from a morning I fought desperately to understand where I was without MyEx. She then said, it was nice compared to the, "Rambling Rob" and quickly added "(and I mean that in the most affectionate way, by the way)." cuz she's read I bruise like a banana.

She was right, of course. My readers are much smarter and better educated than I am. They've learned to listen to the right inner voices. But that year ago Rob was the Rob with an open wound. This Rob has healed. This Rob keeps the inner goop on the inside. I listen to the voices, but most of you won't hear them. Not directly. I keep them to myself. I filter. If you hear my voices, you're too close. My inner control freak is already drawing lines around where you can stand, and those lines are clearly too far back to touch. There's another voice too. It's making sense. It says I really don't need any more voices.