Writing about 5 seconds after my last update.

Basically because I went and re-read this guestbook entry that this Emily person left me and left her a note and kind of started crying.

Everything is absurd.

Here I am in my living room. The television is loudly talking about my abs, then future programming on TLC in a truly silly voice for medical phenomena.

My dog is on the couch. I don't know where my cats are. My Boy is apparently preparing to take a shower, which I had thought he already did. The Tiny Marsupial is in his cage, waiting to be fed which I must do very soon.

I mention these things which seem so trivial for a reason. Because this is life, these things. Because I am sitting here. I am here, I am in my living room. I have an apartment. I have a boyfriend. I have a floor, a dining room table. There is chicken noodle soup in my stomach. My couch that I am sitting on is red and torn up from the cats scratching.

I have no idea what I want. I have never had any idea what I want.

Many things make me sad.

Most things?

This might appear to be another, yet another, entry of nothing of interest. Might look like no sacrifice of mine. But this is not so.

My laptop in front of me breaks my heart. The television show, the voiceover, breaks my heart. The table with its little chip from my dog's puppyhood breaks my heart. The sound of the shower water breaking over my boyfriend breaks my heart. I hate this. I hate all of this.

I did not, once again, even know that I would write that.

For one thing, because honestly I love this, I love all of this, I love everything. Too fucking much. I love the stain on the wood floor from cat pee that one time I was too depressed to change the litter for too long and he went on the rug. I love the visual image of my pale pale columbian boy with his really silly tattoos now just wet out of the shower, black hair. I love my dog. I love the horizon when I walk outside and see the bottom of manhattan. I love the cranes on my dock lit up at night.

But is it all supposed to hurt so much?

All these things I love, physical, human, animal, sensate. All of them break my heart, all the time, every day. Sometimes I feel like if there was just one more single input, dataset, sensation, I would not manage. Sometimes I feel that I cannot manage anyway.

And this is still not how I like myself.

I am strong. Goddammit, I am strong. Seriously, I am strong. You and me both I am convincing.

But it's true. strong I am. Rather.

It's the rest of it I have some trouble with.

I remain largely unconvinced that I am deserving of the things I like. Worthy of those around me. I am probably not.

I am not being self-deprecating. My ego is, I think, fairly healthy.

Frankly, though, I dont't think I am. The deepest truth I am afraid to face is that I'm really not particularly good. Particularly worth much. I would like to be. It is easy to convince other ....

Fuck it. Meaning, I was about to finish that sentence, and fuck it. There are only two possible responses to that. Either I am believed, or not. Neither is entirely true, neither is desirable, and if I did not recognize that I would be the innocent I am obviously not.

Realistically, there is no point to making the statement I was about to complete. Realistically, I am human. Realistically, there is not much point at all to discussing anything above, beyond, below that fact, those feelings, that nature.

Realistically, I am only saying one thing, ever, here. Realistically, probably so is anyone else.

Love me.

That's it. That's all I am looking for. All I am saying. All that makes me cry, now, before, in the future.

Love me.

- onehanded