spat out

“Well, I try not to be myself, as much as possible,” I finally relented and explained to my brother in the pub.  “You know, feigning like I’m an upbeat, positive sort of character.  Sometimes they buy it.  And I do too.”
He was giggling, we were onto our second large glass of tasty but extremely expensive Shiraz.  I was disgusted at the price of the round, no wonder I never usually drink it in pubs.
Pressed by the craving to physically voice the garbage that populates this silly identity, the urge to speak it to somebody I know in real life, I eventually caved in.
I explained my misgivings to him, why I didn’t speak about it, and he laughed, before acting exactly as I knew he would.  That faux patronising, “aww, but that’s so sweet, she sounds so eligible”.  I knew a reasonably adult, man-to-man conversation with him would be out of the question.  He would giggle, make fun and patronise  Even so, it still felt good to speak it, and out it tumbled with amusing punctuations, humour, genuine laughter on both sides.  It made it less serious somehow, not so important really – despite beating myself up over it most of the weekend, healthily removing, explaining my accidental, gauche inclinations like this.
“So, all I’d need to do would be log into your laptop, find this Twitter account and blog?  Mum would go mental.”  He always worries about what Mum would think, first and foremost.  It’s quite tiring.  Yes, my shrug said.  And I pretended not to be terrified of the prospect. 
“You know, basically I’m still a twat given to screwing up any potential opportunity in stupidly clumsy manner,” I concluded.
Hence swashbuckled.


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