The pain of hypocrisy

I am overweight. Not obese but overweight. Its kinda been this weird obvious secret I've been showing the world but not talking about. Recently I made fun of my sister, who has also been going through the same weight issues as I.

Sis: I can still fit into a small you know
Me: Yeah at Lane Bryant.

I was being incredibly bitchy that day and have since profusely apologized for my comments. She forgave me that day but today she got me back.

Sis: OMG we're going to have to go to the ER.
Me: Why?!?
Sis: Your baby's due isn't it?

Sure it was a lame reference to the enormity of my gut and I know she just meant it in jest, in contrast to mine which was a mean retort.

And yet... I'm wallowing right now.

I know that both of us being fat gives both of us the right to roast each other with zings and snaps but for some reason that one hurt. I mean it wasn't all that clever to begin with and it was a two line put down and if I want to think about all the cleverer comments I made I know I totally rule but somehow I'm totally bugged.

I guess thats the pain of hypocrisy. Until I know how to take little jibes like that I shouldn't doll them out myself.

on a slightly more morbid note a portion of a conversation I overheard between mother and son

Mother: stop that! you're okay.
Son: (shakes his head)
Mother: YOU walked into my hand
Son: (starts to tear up)
Mother: I told you I was going to open the door

and then the rest trailed off... Like the security of my computer... It trailed off. Luckily I have an identity no one would want to steal.

Emma Hollis, friend and foe but not frenemy cause thats just lame.

Hello fellow nobodies! My name is Emma. I reside peacefully in the consiousness of Ms. Anne Choi. Yes, I am calling her out to be a bit of a loony with an imaginary friend but I thought the world should meet me. I am the voice inside her head, the person she tells her stories to and the person most critical of her when she fails to write shit out.
I recently had an interesting conversation with Anne about the merits of having an imaginary friend at her age. She felt ashamed that she had no one real to hash things out with and in a lot of ways I did feel for her. She has isolated herself and theres noone left but me.

But the truth that she often forgets is that she is better off then most of you saps. She is atleast admitting her vices and is accepting of the fact that she does talk to herself.

Everyone has that little voice inside of them and much like the movie Drop Dead Fred, they all spak the same language.

So whats my point? Sometimes it will be Anne, sometimes it will be me. Either way, nothing is off topic and it will be a free for all of furious keyboard banging.

Defining myself

I have often considered myself a storyteller. My life was filled with adventures and I knew that of all the people in my family, I had a particular knack for the inventive so I sought to prove it. I found a passion in writing because in its difficulty I found an ease with it. I could elaborate as much as I wanted and I didn't necessarily have to have an audience. But over the years I found it incredibly challnging to be a writer. I loved to write, I loved to tell stories and yet th process of writitng it down was a discipline I had yet to master.

I still haven't mastered it but I have renwed my commtiment to writing, even if it means a blog noone will read. I have thoughts that are often super crammed in there and it is a bit of a relief to have a proper outlet.

Onwards