Let’s lighten up the mood in this bitch.

If you saw me in the street these past two weeks, you would never have guessed that I had just been reliving that whole father situation over here. Because, while it was emotional to write, I felt so relieved about getting it all out there. So, thanks for reading and commenting and emailing and supporting me even though I veered off the humorous observation path. I appreciate that I have this world of strangers encouraging me. Even if there are only five of you.

The ironic part is that all this dad stuff emerged because of my stand-up comedy class. I am trying to learn how to be funnier (which is funny in itself), and the openness I’m learning there moved me to write about dead dads for two whole weeks! Hilarious. In an aside here, I’d like to tell America that this is irony. Taking a comedy class that makes you more depressing is ironic. T-shirts, however, are not ironic. Stop using that word wrong. A T-shirt is only ironic if you sell your hair to buy one for your husband who has sold his torso to buy you a comb for your hair.

But something amazing happened as I left those dad articles up for a week each. They were like statements nailed to my door if I had a door and lived back in the day when people nailed stuff to doors. All of a sudden, everybody knew. And that felt fucking awesome. Because for my whole life I’ve been shoving this stuff deep inside me. I felt it was something I shouldn’t talk about, something that made me abnormal and scarred and not good enough. I didn’t come from a perfect family and my dad story was a big black stain on my memory. My therapist (what, are you surprised?) told me not to talk about such private history until date six. And usually when I did, there’d be a blank look and an oh-I-feel-so-bad-for-you conversation.

Barf. It’s just life. Gimme a break.

But now it’s out there! And all five of you know about it. And it’s no secret. And telling everybody is so freeing. I’m on the offense instead of the defense. Now it feels more ‘this is me, so suck it’ rather than ‘oh, well, I guess I should tell you this because it’s time for us to be closer. Hope you still accept me.’

So, my point is: Let’s tell our secrets. Let’s make secrets obsolete. I fucking hate secrets. I am so racist against secrets, it’s disgusting. I want to throw all secrets into a gas chamber. I’ve always loved Post Secret, and now I finally understand why all those crazy people send in their secrets. Because it feels fucking good. To let it out and let it go.

So, you know, feel free to share some secrets here. Or not. You can always email them to me (salasala@gmail.com), and I will write about them.

In turn, I will tell you a secret. Another one. A less depressing one. Ready? Here goes:

I religiously read ‘Missed Connections’ on Craigslist. I do! I’m embarrassed each time I click on the link, but just what if? What if the guy I’m sitting next to at this here coffee shop with the scarf on is really not gay but European and happens to have made eye contact with me purposely instead of just because his friend was standing behind me? And maybe he would have totally asked for my number but looked at the clock and realized he was late to pick his grandmother up for their weekly tea. Oh, and I guess my other secret is that I am a hopeless romantic and am positive my movie ending will happen (much like it did in my friend’s book, which you should most definitely read. Uh, I spent Fourth of July in bed reading. Another secret: I'm lame.).

Wait, maybe this is a depressing secret. Sigh.

At least it’s all out there. I’m so in control now. I feel like a little bird.

Now... let’s have some fun in this bitch.