i remember reviving her, but i don't remember the specific reason. i do conjecture that i wanted to prove how smart or clever i was to an adult, probably my mother--whom i sometimes held in inferior regard. finding out the thing i had said about my friend later failed to upset me, but left me puzzled.
what was i thinking? i was still the same person, but one who was perhaps a little more morbid, or fascinated with the results of her own story on other people, regardless of the facts of the matter. i can only imagine myself at some young age offhandedly mentioning her death, but then egging myself on with further details and analysis of my own feelings on that matter. i am surprised i don't remember it. maybe i haven't changed that much, but have always been this way. i was that way when i killed her, when i brought her back, and i am still that way now that i am trying to understand why--mysterious, spontaneous, and not worthy of holding the truth for very long.
whenever i give accounts of stories from everyday life, presenting them to an audience, i tend to gague the wishes of the audience and of the potential reactions to elements of the story. armed with these observations, i tend to tailor the details of the event to fit my storytelling technique. while this may work to impress people who don't hear me speak much, it backfires on me after using it on my friends--they hear these stories more often than others, and they catch the nuances. am i a liar in their eyes? i don't feel as though i am completely bad; it's just sometimes i recognize that faint disbelief in my powers of strict adherence to the facts in the attitude of my closest compatriots. i have not completely broken a line of trust. i have made it pliable, so that it holds just enough water to get my point across without letting the bottom drop out. a precarious paper cup i balance, ladies and gentlemen.
it has been a struggle in my mind to gain the respect of my friends, because i have a tendancy to screw up relationships, and to be able to screw them up with an extrodinary, uncanny ease. or so it seems to me. i become paranoid because i don't think they trust me enough to respect me--they can't trust the things i say, i think, because i can't trust them either. my brain works fine, but my communication skills need much improvement. it makes for great storytelling; it sucks when the real world is like that too.
the anecdotes about people like mrs. mary engine may be called fictive biographies. the book i may write may be called a fictive autobiography, provided i don't learn to tell the whole truth between now and any forthcoming day of publication.