What I’m Not Saying

I tell you everything that’s really nothing, and nothing of what’s everything. Do not be fooled by what I’m saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I’m not saying. ~Charles C. Finn, Poet, Writer

Sounds lonely, right? It’s actually an excerpt from a long poem about a man desperate for love and acceptance, but can’t express it. Google it. It’s unbelievably sappy, but I get the point. We all hide behind a whole lotta nothin’, not saying what we really mean.

It’s an art trying to get through this life without having a nervous breakdown every single day, heaped in the corner, giggling like someone who’s gone off the deep end. I think we’re all confused. It’s so hard to cope. Some people keep their feelings inside their whole lives, until it turns into yucky cancer. Some write, like the Unabomber and his Manifesto. Others, like Rob Zombie, make a bunch of pretty shocking ultra-violent horror flicks. You gotta get your ya-ya’s out.

Some are more obvious than others about their feelings. What I’m thinking of is the image of a sad clown. Colorful face paint, red nose, and tears. But I just wanna say, make up your mind, stupid clown. You’re supposed to be happy but you look like a drunk hobo. Kids don’t like that. (Oh, and ever heard of John Wayne Gacy? He dressed up as Pogo The Clown and ended up torturing and killing like 30-something boys. I swear to God, beware of clowns.) A clown’s only job is to entertain, so WTF?

We dissect the brains of serial killers to find out what the hell they were thinking. Apparently you see a lot of frontal lobe damage. I guess abuse = future murderer. But can you imagine if they were upfront about what they had in mind? (OK, extreme example.) We all have had dark thoughts. Look at Dexter. Just another guy, maybe a little lonely, looking to fit in.

The world would be a better place if we could stop worrying about everything. It would also be better if Dexter really existed. Be honest and don’t be afraid. Your thoughts won’t kill you.

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Anne Clendening ♥

Anne Clendening is an L.A. chick, born and raised. She is a writer of creative nonfiction and other sordid tales of life, love and other L.A. adventures.

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