Ten things. Ten things you do not know about me. Fair enough: there’s probably a lot you don’t know about me. But remember the 25 Things thing that went around Facebook a while ago? I didn’t do it. I had no desire to do it. I couldn’t do it.

I’m going to do this, but I have to do it my way. My painfully (pathologically?) introspective way. The way it makes sense to me. I’m going to write Ten Things I Don’t Know About Myself.

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I don’t know how to act my age, which is 53 days shy of 40.

I don’t know when I became obsessively thin.

I don’t know if I regret not having a daughter.

I don’t know if I will be able to walk tomorrow. Because MS is terrifying. And it is my reality.

I don’t know why I changed my name when I got married. I regret it.

I don’t know what to do. At this moment, I have no goals, no dreams. Nothing beyond making it through today.

I don’t know if I would have been pretty, if this hadn’t happened. If. But I like to think so. If.

I don’t know, in response to Big Little Wolf’s post, if I am hot.

I don’t know why I am not a vegetarian.

And I have absolutely no idea why I am an irrepressible optimist. Why, in spite of it all, or perhaps because of it all, I know deep in my bones that my life is painfully beautiful.

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And where, you ask, is the bravery in this half-drunk list? It is, I suppose, in not explaining, not excusing. Not to you or to myself. The courage is in just letting this be what it is. In letting these questions answer themselves. In being patient.

The courage is in letting myself be who I am.

This post is brought to you courtesy of Momalom and their Half-Drunk Challenge, Big Little Wolf and the Sugar Doll Award, and Bailey’s and my coffee pot. And my husband, who is kind enough to be entertained at the sight of me getting buzzed at 9:45. In the morning. Thanks to all.

I remember the day Elvis died. It was in the summer, and it was hot. And that night we went out to eat at The Longhorn restaurant, where I ordered my usual: pizzaburger. Elvis died and I could kind of tell my parents were stunned and I had one question: Was Elvis black? Because for some reason I was of the impression that Elvis was African-American. I was seven; I cannot explain.

And now I just found out that Michael Jackson died. And I feel how I remember my parents feeling the day that Elvis died.

I cannot help it. And I won’t argue the morality (or immorality) of his life or deny that his reality was a murky place or even make any arguments that he was the King of Pop. I have a feeling plenty of others will take care of those arguments.

The summer I was 13, I was in the hospital for a long time. I was sick. I hurt. I had massive surgery. I was in and out of consciousness. And my mom said, “Is there anything we can bring you?” and I said, groggily, “Michael Jackson’s new tape. Thriller.” And my parents indulged me and brought “Thriller” to me and you’d have thought it was made of gold, so ecstatic was I. Oh, and it didn’t hurt that they bought me a boombox, too. Sick? Yes, I was. But I still thought I was pretty damn cool. I listened to that tape so many times that my dad asked me if I was going to wear it out. It was 1983.

And later that year, the World Premiere of Michael Jackson’s earth-shattering video, “Thriller.” (Because that was when MTV actually played music. And videos.) I think my family was decorating the Christmas tree. But we all stopped and gathered ’round the tv and were mesmerized by that video. It. was. stunning.

And that was it for me. I didn’t buy “Dangerous.” I didn’t feel compelled to defend him in his public downfall and shaming. His plastic surgery debacles, frankly, disgusted me. (If I thought Elvis was black, I’m wondering if my kids think MJ was white. But you’d better believe the older two know all the words to “Beat It.”) The circus of his life meant very little to me. So it went.

But that year? 1983? I adored Michael Jackson in a teenage-girl way, and listened to him during some sick and lonely moments. And tonight I am sad. I think it’s time to listen to “Beat It.” Really loudly. Just this once.