Dogpile

I'm confused. By a lot of things. My instinct is to tell everything, share everything, but that's not always fair to everyone else -- or safe for yourself. So you have to behave, and consciously doing anything is never as much fun or as satisfying as following your instincts. Sometimes, it's downright stressful. If you think I'm secretly communicating with you via this post, I probably am. There are plenty of you out there to whom I'd like to say more than I dare. Most of it nice. Although . . .

I dreamed last night about telling a girl off -- a fictional girl who was meant to have been an old school friend. I told her exactly what I thought of her, flicking her off, telling her she was b****y (G-rated blog), really lashed out in anger, and she took it well. I told her, "I don't think you're a terrible person, but you know yourself. You know what I'm saying is true. Most people aren't honest with you." She respected me more afterwards -- wanted to make friends.

Am I angry with someone and not admitting it to myself? Am I angry at myself? Do I think I'm a b****?

I don't think so, but I do think I need a night, or a weekend, or a pilgrimage to the desert, during which I don't feel the need to monitor myself at all, where I feel at peace with everyone and everything. At rehearsal the other day, I said something like, "Wouldn't it be fun if instead of a stage, we had a pit full of pillows, and we could all curl up and sleep in a jumble like puppies?"

Apparently, I don't want friends. I want a litter. Restful and satisfying.

Ricky said, "Rachel, you a craze."

That is true, but really, it would be fun. I'm still thinking about it.