“Do you want to get married?” my boss asked me, after one of our co-workers had described a particularity difficult day in her marriage.

“NO.” I said, with force, as an absolute. “I’m never getting married.”

“Yes you will,” he shook his head at me, as he does frequently, when I amuse him especially. A darling man, he’s never been married. He’s so generous, so forgiving, ‘an excellent uncle,’ he tells me. “That’s the great thing about not having kids: you have nieces and nephews, and then, it’s all cake; it’s all icing: it’s always easy. You’re there for the good, for the fun, and you can high-tail it when it may be bad.”

“I’m not getting married,” I repeated, this time much with much more intent, and turned and pivoted, as I learned to do in dance class when I was so young, so many years ago, and walked out of his office. My long hair flipped over my shoulder, and I strode out, confident, indignant, and contemplating. He was left, still amused, still convinced he was correct in his assessment of me.

He probably is. If I say, “I’ll never…” it’s mostly because I don’t want to be told I have to. I don’t want it to be expected of me to do something. I am so fiercely my own person, if I do something, it’s because I want to, not because society or whomever says it needs to be so. For me,if it’s black, it’s really white; if it’s up, it’s down, left, then right.

I don’t like to feel like my existence is being threatened, that I have to do something because someone else expects it to be so.

So when it comes to how to conduct blogging, I’m torn. On one hand, this is my outlet. This is my passion. This is my thing. And I decided to do this, despite my begging, I can’t get anyone else to start. The problem is, I can’t write about anyone else. Not even when others have inspired my need to vent, need to scribe, it’s not my place, because of a little thing that I, ironically enough, demand: privacy.

And if I have a problem with someone, it’s not my place to blog it. And that’s when I get fiercely protective of this, my baby, my project. I want to be able to bust through any door, no consequence. Why shouldn’t I write about what I want to? There are obviously limits, but if it affects me I think it should be my right to work it out on here. I’ve lost friends over this (well, there were other factors, compounded by the fact I blogged), and as a result, I’m cautious, but I still believe I should do what I want.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe I should just listen to others, and accept not all things are my god-given right. If it’s my life, it’s my right to blog it. I can’t help you don’t want to be portrayed a certain way. This is me, telling my story. And I’m angry, and I don’t know how to deal except to write it. But for the moment, it will need to wait, until things are sorted out.