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Goat

I'm so horny and so incapable of finding satisfactory release (read: hopelessly horny) that I looked up the etymology of "horny." Doesn't quite plug the hole, if you know what I mean.

This would have been a tweet if I used Twitter.

Shift

Ah. Well. Hello. I realize that I also turn to you when I feel that no one is my friend anymore. I am well past the incipience of the feeling that there is no longer any room for me here. "Me" as in my thoughts, my emotions, my desires, my ambitions, my hopes, my actions, my body, my voice.

"Me."

I'm obese and verbose and grotesque and that ever-egregious inappropriate.

If I'm not looking for a man's approval, I should be able to stand up for myself.

I just feel sick. And alone. I need to go away.

Far.

Resonate

I turn to you when I want someone to listen, but I don't want anyone to hear. When I wish... when I wish I could speak to one of the many people whom I love or have loved, yet I feel like I can't. It's sad how the last two posts were things I'd forgotten I'd even written. Yet when I look at them, it comes back. How lost I was. How lost I still am.

And the third last post I wrote.

Oh, how I used to dream and still do. Why am I always dreaming, never waking?

Would it be so strange if I ran away? I feel as if I can get nothing more from this place, from these people... from myself. The words I say, the people I try to save, the difference I try to make... it's all nothing, just nothing. What if I had a different face? A different voice? Would it be a different life? Would I have friends? Love? Would I be happy?

What do I need?

What do I need to be happy? Do I need to be superhero? Or do I just need someone to love me? Or do I need to "look good naked"... "be comfortable in my own skin"... love myself?

Death. Life. Rebirth. Loss. Being lost. Absolution.

Happiness?

Safety?

I want to scream. Let it echo.

I want to scream, and I want someone to listen but not hear.

Feeling

Everything is broken.

Help me.

Game plan?

I don't want to be who I am anymore. 

A question under the stars

I know how I'll know if he's the one. If we're lying in the each other's arms, staring up at the stars -- and we're doing it anyway, even if it's a cliche, because the sight is too beautiful to overwhelmed by cliche -- and he asks me what I want to do when I grow up. Well, we're sort of grown up already, but not really. Anyway, he asks me what I see myself doing years and years from now. Because he cares. Because he's fascinated. Because he wants to figure out if he can fit in my maelstrom of a life -- and if he can, how well. And months later he'll ask the same thing, because he realizes that plans can change. He realizes that the contents of my heart shift on our way from here to there. Those shifts matter to him. Those shifts are part of me, and every part of me matters to him.

The guy who cares about shifting carry-ons and turbulence and delays and detours, who offers me an air sickness bag when I feel queasy, who tells me how much longer we have left when I ask, "Are we there yet?"

He'll be the one.

I'm going to lock myself in a GAY CLOSET

I miss my boyfriend. I mean my ex.

I just... almost can't believe it. My first. My only, so far. I miss him.

I miss you my Jorge boi.

[Nd]

There's a piano playing in my head

It doesn't make me feel any better to write in here. Or maybe it does. I don't know what else to do. I just feel so down right now. I'm definitely not depressed -- just down. He's gone. We're not us. I'm just me.

I... I don't know exactly what to say. It just hurts. And I feel empty. It's been over month, I think. But... I'm sad.

Well, there. I guess that did make me feel better. That's sorta funny.

Anyway.

[Nd]

Herro rivejournal!

I feel like writing again after we basically bashed the idea of keeping a diary in my Historical Process class. Well we weren't trying to bash it. It's just that Narveson kept asking people, "Oh. So you kept a diary. Why did you start doing that? And why did you stop?" And people would answer, "I started it because of blah blah... but then I got tired of it." I thought, "Hmm... Yeah, that sounds pretty much like what happened to me." 

I started livejournaling because I read a couple of gay guys' LJs, and I figured that my life was probably just as fascinating...! Turns out that wasn't the case. But oh well. I just feel like typing stuff right now.

Feel horrible. Tummy problems. So dehydrated. Because of... you know. Tummy problems. Tummy problems make you dehydrated when they... erm, get carried out.

Ugh. Okay, I really feel awful, like @_@

[Nd]

Crest

I wish all my problems fit into a tube of toothpaste. And while my problems are in the tube, they're still in my life. But once I've rolled up the tube and gathered all the stress, anxiety, regret, resentment, anger... Once I've taken it all and squeezed and pushed and forced it all out of the tube, it's out of my life. And I'm just an empty tube of toothpaste. Of course, that means I'll have to be replaced by another full tube of problem-toothpaste. But still. It'd be nice to just roll and squeeze, roll and squeeze, roll and squeeze... until my problems are all gone.

Dealing... or not dealing, perhaps... makes me feel so weak. Vulnerable. Basically, every time things start to look unbearable, all I see is him. I tell myself I just want to be in his arms. I just want to sit with him, lie with him, hold him and kiss him... I just want to wake up from all this and return to last year, the two of us blissfully unaware of the chaos and confusion, the two of us... one. It makes me feel so weak. Because he doesn't need me. And I...? I suppose, though it's fucking hard to say it... I... don't

But I love him so much and I miss him, and...

Toothpaste, damn it. Roll and squeeze. No more tears, please. Just roll and squeeze.

Although if this were all a dream, a nightmare, and I woke up and everything was perfect and we were together like we should be...

...

Fucking roll and squeeze, damn it.