I have some social problems.
They tend to border on dishonesty but then again, social dishonesty is by no means a new concept.

So when I say problems I'm referring more to the after effects of my actions as opposed to the actions themselves.

I like to be a creative and diversely interesting conversationalist.
This requires a quick wit, ingenuity and a relatively comprehensive grasp of the English language and its vocabulary.

This all being said, I have to admit I have a tendency to secretly hold to a minor amount of timidity with regard to introducing novel ideas and/or aphorisms. I keep this shyness within my personal arcana in order that my confidence in speech won't falter or be suspect by those with whom I am engaging.

This comes out most often in the form of my "re-telling something someone else once said" when in reality I just came up with it myself. Or "recounting an idea I've had for a while now," when in truth it just occurred to me and I am making it up as I go.

Like I said these actions aren't the end of the world and by no means make me some interactive fiend. And yet in antithesis to besmirching my character, I am refraining from allowing it to be polished, amended to, and improved.
By allowing others to believe that the witty and pithy statements I'm dropping ever so appropriately into a conversation belong to anyone other than myself (when they are one-hundred percent originally my own) I'm removing the ability for the audience to attribute that communicative brilliance to me and instead it goes wafting out over the sea of some nebulous "other" who never gets any real credit anyway because of the blatant fact that they don't exist.

As for bringing up implicitly "long standing ideas" as if I've been developing them for some time and am only just now ready to discuss them in their gravity and complexity, I'm robbing myself of the respect gained for a quick mind and deep thought.

Upon this reflection I rest a huge amount of recent discontent with my articulation.
Whether social, personal or otherwise, I'm through with this meaningless and petty fear of being disappointing.

The only reason I can see for my ridiculous behavior is indeed that I am afraid I'll come off as "unfunny, uninspired, and terribly banal."

This just won't do.

When I told you I wasn't really interested I guess I should've been clearer.
It's not that I'm not really interested, the truth is that I have no inclination towards you whatsoever.

Maybe this is too quick, too harsh, too something you come up with to make yourself feel like a victim.

Well I've been told I'm "too" a lot of things.
I guess if I could give you some advice from the perspective of a rather superfluous person, learn to be excited about your details but don't take offense when your details don't earn you massive brownie points with the people still too afraid to be who they are at 100%.

Is this advice meant to be something universally applicable?
Maybe.
But I'll be honest in saying that I'm not interested in telling everyone.
Mostly just you.

I'm making a promise to myself.
It's nothing new.
Nothing I haven't promised before.
More than anything it's a reminder to be more of myself.
To fulfill the possibility, the potential I know I have in me.

I'm writing again.
What's new?
But this time I'm promising myself to write each day.
Write a single page at first.
Whether just for the sake of practicing my penmanship and/or typing skills or to actually produce something I'm proud to show.

Either way at least I'll be doing something worthwhile with my presently dormant sense of discipline.

On with this show, open the stage door and let in the extras because there is more to this presentation than soliloquy.
Light up the stage with a hundred expectant faces.

And together we'll light the whole audience on fire.

Once I made love to a boy who hated himself.
Needless to say the feeling ended up being somewhat contagious.
And, as with many of the infections resulting from sex, it was something of a viral problem.

The resulting pregnancy of self-scorn and disgust made for one hell of a diagnosis by the time I finally sought ought an additional opinion.

I felt the very water in my blood turn to brine and the flesh on my bones became like limp, pallid rags.

Then, just when I thought I was showing signs of improvement the worst symptom plastered itself to the space beneath my skin.

Numbness.
Complete disconnect from everything.
It was like loneliness only worse due to the feeling of irreparable maladjustment, like I would never be able to engage in life ever again.

Sure, things would continue to happen around me but that meant I was left to the torture of seeing everything I wanted but couldn't have pass me by, moment by moment, day by day.

Then I got up, wiped the stray and crackled partially dried semen from off of my midsection and realized that I felt guilty no matter how I masturbated.

Thank you, Jesus.

Hateful Neglect

I've been somewhat sparse in my online writing these last several days.
I believe the reason to be that I have been much more mobile than I have in quite some time.

Once again I find myself house sitting for my darlings, Marc and Floyd.
Dearest little Sherman does seem to anticipate my arrivals with such an eagerness that I might be convinced to move in permanently.

I wouldn't dream of imposing on the office seeing as how I'm sure I'd be the utter end of both Marc and Floyd's creative output and that just wouldn't do.

I've taken it upon myself to voluntarily take over the master bedroom complete with its King sized mattress and spacious closet.

I know, I'm something of a modern day saint.

I cannot wait for the two of my hosts to return home to find my belongings tastefully integrated into their lush living environment.

The rager really helped to give me something of a clean slate to start from with regard to interior (not to mention exterior) re-decorating.

I hope they won't mind that big spot on the carpet or the fantastic new openness brought about the removal of the piano and couches...I told them not to take anything.

Silly teenagers.

The Feel of the Air on Your Thighs When They're First Freed From Your Pantlegs

It's a refreshing and disgusting feeling being up past 5am.
Everything in me wishes I were already sleeping and sleeping hard.
Dreaming of little rosy animals and impossibly high flights above some green, leafy forest filled with bright and delicious fruits, dulcet melodies, and beautiful raw sexual encounters of all but unmarred innocence.

This is the feeling of loneliness in a space designed for being solitary.
It's the feeling a novice experiences, no doubt, during those first trying weeks at the convent.
Wanting everything and yet in everything wanting to want nothing.

Paradoxical, it may seem, and yet there's an ambitious beauty in its undertaking.
It's as if she wills herself to be all that she doesn't desire to be in the first instance just so that she can predict the following instances with unchecked and uninteresting accuracy.

I'd rather find comfort of the lucidity of dreaming than in this place at this very hour.

Sleep should act as a perfect poison to my current vivification.