Are you honest with yourself?

  I learned long ago that personally, my best inner policy is don‘t ask, don’t tell, so I don’t ask myself anything that I don’t want to know, and I don’t self-volunteer any unsolicited information. What I don’t reveal to myself about me won’t kill me. The less I know about me, the better. See that guy over there, the one in the mirror, don’t stick my nose into my own business if I know what’s good for me.  Half the stuff I tell myself about me can’t be relied on, and the other half can’t be verified. I don’t even think about myself without wondering if I’m wearing a wire, and if so, I sure do want to know who I’m working for to bleed info from me about me to me fir for me. I was going to do some soul-searching, but without a warrant, I didn’t have legal grounds, so I backed off. There’s got to be a gag order on the voices in my head, but it’s ok anyway, I don’t speak the same language that they do. I can’t convince myself to persuade me to follow my own advice on what I know is good for me in my own best interests. I’ve told myself time and time again that I’ve told myself time and time again. If it matters what’s the matter, what matters is that matter, in sort of a matter-of-fact manner. I think the way I like and I like the way I think. This is all a bunch of circularly illogical logic that logistically revolves around orbital rotations of rotund and profoundly profuse prognorations . . . (this therapist sure has nice legs) . . .