I like people. People are the best. I like being around people, talking to people, hearing about people and watching people...whether or not they know I'm watching.
I find that people want to talk about themselves, but truth be told most people can't always find someone to listen to them. Even people who are married, in relationships or have bestest friends sometimes really never get to be heard. If they can't find a therapist to whom they can pay a bucket load of money to listen to them, sooner or later they'll find an innocent bystander and pour out their inner most thoughts & secrets for no good reason.
Apparently I have "innocent bystander" written across my forehead in glowing Max Factor as people tend to want to tell me things. Possibly that's because I ask so many questions. Enquiring minds and all that. I'm deeply and truly interested in humanity.
I'm a friggin humanitarian, that's what I am.
Knowing what makes people tick does it for me. Knowing the secrets of so many people really, really does it for me. Thinking I can singlehandedly figure out why a grown man still sucks his thumb or a lazy-eyed woman is having an affair with a much younger and completely fugly man really, really, really does it for me.
Call me Freud. Sherri Freud.
I hold so many secrets, you have no idea. If the Enquirer had any interest whatsoever in the day to day goings on of Midwesterners, I could build a new house on the cash they'd pay me to spill my guts.
But these guts aren't made for spilling. My guts are in the vault, Baby.
Of course, I'll yank my guts out of the vault for the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou. Or for gum. Or for someone I feel close to for a minute.
I feel pretty close to you, Blog Reader Person. And I totally need to relieve some stress after the highly stressful day I've endured. I find telling secrets is a stress reliever almost as good as throwing darts at pictures of that tiny alien known as Tom Cruise.
Ready? Here we go....
I know someone who is smart and sensitive and kind and not at all a serial killer who told me he killed his favorite pet dog when he was nine because it bit him.
I made a solemn vow never to bite him. (Even though he's hot and sometimes I really want to.)
I know someone who relieves stress by planning murders in his head from start to finish. He figures he is one of the few that could do the do and get away with it.
His name is in a safe deposit box at my bank. If I wake up dead some morning after what looks like a freak down comforter accident, call John Walsh.
I know someone who has slept with any number of people in our community and shared said information with someone who does not have a vault such as mine. As a result, the sharee has spilled a long list of names on the sharer's list of shame with anyone that will listen. And ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm always listening.
Here's Rule Numero Uno of being a player in Mayberry. Keep your mouth shut.
Oh! Here's a juicy one! I know someone who is managing two very different men and managing them well. Each of them thinks they're the only one...the one she's going to marry. One is older and well to do and one is a lowly public servant who carries a gun and gets paid diddly.
I don't know how she does it. I can't manage the one man I do have, and Lord knows I wouldn't know where to find another one even if I wanted to. What's she doing with two of them? Did I mention she's young and firm and has big boobies? I think it's a rule that to have a stable of men, you have to meet those three criteria.
My three criteria are old, soft and training bra. I'm just lucky I'm not made to sleep in a stable.
I feel better now. Don't tell anyone all this stuff, OK? If I hear these secrets on the street I'll totally know you told.
Here's my favorite video of the day. Good stuff, Maynard.
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