I was going to post about you tonight, but it would upset too much in my life. I’m learning for the first time what it feels like, regret in writing. I’m learning how jealous fits, how irrational and messy feels.  It doesn’t suit me or this place I’ve carved.  I’ve learned that it does matter, the words I use, the "you" implied. I’m learning what to keep for myself, and I’ve never felt this before. Before I believed putting everything out there was brave.It’s not really. It’s young. Because when I open my life that much, it leaves me open to more criticism, not of my writing, but in judgment. "How can you?" comes too easily from people who don’t know the smells of my home or the way I sleep. Strangers pass judgment on words said in the middle of the night, words I spew when I’m angry and hurt, words I don’t mean. Words. They don’t last anywhere but here, in archives. People forget how temporary feelings and words can be.  I’m people a lot of the time, too. There are things I want to post but won’t. Yes, I’m finishing the book and haven’t been diligent in my blogging. Yes. That’s true. I’ve been a stress case like you read about in textbooks.  I’ve been reaching out to friends in a panic, friends who know everything I say is temporary and irrational. But it’s still said, out there, in their minds and the width of space between us. Friends forgive and love me even when I make no sense, which has been a lot lately. I’ve been NASTY and mean to those I love most.  And I spend my quiet time regretting my choices in sobs. I hurt those I love most with temporary words that seem to last longer than my moods. It’s not fair. There’s no excuse.  I also shouldn’t be so hard on myself.  I hurt my family, which hurts me afterward.  Soon sorry is just a word too. I’m in a bad place, but tomorrow there will be a gingerbread latte for the taking… and I’ll have it with whipped… and things will seem brighter.