Reality is tricky. Especially if you have a broken brain like mine.
Everyone is familiar with the occasional lie we tell to keep a conversation rolling. Our recollections don’t always have a narrative sewn to them, they are a series of sense impressions which sometimes feel as new as they do to the listener when you begin a story.
I’m a lousy conversationalist. Don’t ever make me speak to a group in the shape I am in these days. Which, mind you is pretty good shape if you know where I have been. There was a brief period around in 2008 where I was so jacked up on mania that I was sharp as a tack and without fear, a wit going a mile a minute without a net. I hadn’t yet lost my marbles but there was a growing hole in the bag. I miss that me sometimes, but that person was dangerously close to throwing away everything it had that was good on a whim or a wish.
Nowadays I don’t think anything that I do is all that important so I usually don’t take the talking stick at gatherings. I am just fine with letting everyone else run the room. This kind of aloofness has been confused for smarts, and brought its own type of girl at parties a few times.
But some memories never happened. I have whole events and conversations that I hallucinated. They feel as real as real does but I can confirm that I was dreaming awake, or something like that.
The Illogical Seminary 