I'm speaking of the paranoia I use to have before I decided that anyone who is going to know me is going to know the real me.
I remember coming up with complex and intricate plans to ensure that should I randomly die for whatever reason, that those I leave behind who would go through my things would either A) not find my women's clothes, (because I hid them so well) or B) Find them in the same spot where all the letters and mementos of all the women I've known in my life would be found. So that they would think something like this:
"Hmm... let's see. Giant plastic tote crate containing several large stacks of envelopes containing letters and cards from various women around the world. Most of these are "love letters", birthday cards, confessions, etc. A couple of empty wine bottles. Some books of poetry, some journals, taped locks of hair on pages with scribbles. Stacks of photographs of girls. 35mm negatives. A half-smoked joint. Ticket stubs from concerts, shows, art museums. Various items of jewelry. A ziplock bag with some crumbled remains of mexican mushrooms. Restaurant napkins with scribbled notes. A few works of unknown art. 15 pairs of panties. 6 pairs of shoes. 8 dresses. Carious other women's clothing. Couple of sex toys. Scented candles. Massage oil."
And my guess is that the observer would probably conclude that they were all kept for a reason: to remind me that all the women I knew in my life were real. I have something they wrote, something we did together, or something she wore.
Well, today the girl stuff is on the left side of my closet. Guy stuff on the right.
I'm wondering if anyone else has let fear get the better part of them?