once upon a time. when i was younger. when i was a teen. i didn't give a damn about explaining myself. having to explain myself. to explain WHY. required too much thought. and i couldn't be bothered. then. when i got older. in my twenties. and in my early thirties. things changed. i felt it was necessary. critical. a responsibility. a duty. for me to explain myself. to explain WHY. i felt it was CORRECT. and PROPER. now. as i prepare to enter my forties. i find myself reverting to my teen rebelliousness. i don't give a damn about explaining myself. having to explain myself requires not only thought. but time. and a certain dedication. i find myself asking myself, must i? and why? and to whom do i owe such loyalty and allegiance as to require this explanation? and the answers always leave me with a most certain resolve: i am not required to explain myself. i do not wish to explain myself. i do not owe it to anyone, but a select few, to explain myself. and so. i do not explain myself.