Anyone Else Other Than Me

If you saw things I wrote about you once you wouldn't be so kind. You wouldn't want to see me again, that's the most likely scenario. But I hardly knew you at the time, didn't know you in fact. I was only going off of hair and skin and clothes and what few words were sent between us. They were jokes, never meant to be seen or read by anyone else other than me. And, yes, if I'm being honest (and I guess that's what we're doing here) I take them out from time to time, the things I wrote, my little notebook. And, yes, I read them back, to myself, out loud. And, yes, I still get a good chuckle. And it's not because I think them now, not even because I really thought them then. But every once in a while it's nice to unlock that part of yourself, isn't it? The guy who makes fun of decent people. The guy who says terrible things. The bad guy. And as long as you keep him small and private it's OK, who are you really hurting? Because the public me, the bigger me, that's the me you know. That's the me you know. That's me. Really, it is. That's me.