the first

i'm not in love with my significant other.

subtext: i know she cares more for me than i for her. i don't know how she cannot see this. i also hate myself for being too much of a coward to tell her.

spent so long

while i tiptoed around the idea of sharing my ideas and falling in love with new minds the internets grew up, got wise, stumbled drunk, said some things but never stopped churning. me? same guy, still bottled up and paying for it. i meet new people to feel reborn. i realize that i'm just a novelty that eventually reeks of stagnation. i maintain old friendships partly because of their true blue quality but also because they'll have me and its safe. i can admit my partial truths here just as i can in the yellowed pages of a leather-bound diary. there's no risk in either one because i will fail myself. i will fear that someone who matters will read what i write and leave my life. or worse still, laugh at my futile attempts. for once i feel old and mean it with sincerity. while kids act like jackasses i seethe in the corner with the anger of a person who won't allow himself to be ... uhm, himself. so i'm grouchy, lack the good sense to mind my health and go on pretending i know what it is i'm talking about. admit some truth for once. then repeat. and we (i) shall see to the task of abolishing this self-hatred.

finding fool's gold

you used to be more interesting, she told me. you used to do more. have more ambition. it is what it is i say and i wonder if i've become so passive that sharp tongues juss sorta roll past me. to truth, i've been waiting for her to say that for awhile. since when? since hell, this time she was waiting around for joe to come around and pick her up. and i thought how funny it was that he was picking her up on his bike, which really just meant that they were going bike riding. i bought a bike once. last summer. and i promptly filled the tires and stored the damn thing because of a magazine article i read about studies on testicular cancer. it didn't specifically note correlations but it got me remembering the very many cyclists i'd heard in the news that had come down with balls cancer. i don't want balls cancer or any cancer. but i do want to finish my story's point. how i knew that she'd get around to the point that i'd lost my interest. she told me i don't write anymore. i could protest but the fact that this entry is two years in the making would put reason in her corner. i don't fill my life with arts now. i dont create anything. i dont enjoy political discourse like i used to. what's that say? it's that i'm not an arty kid. that the phase i was playing through a few years ago was me touching doorknobs feeling for what were roadbloacks and what were new paths. it is discouraging to ewxognize that you're not going to be famous for your athletic talents or written words. i am bland. and i'm often imbued with a grumpy demeanor. the kind that seethes with frustration because expectations fell through. i don't find myself particularly interesting but the unsettling part is that now alarms me is how deep my unpleasantness goes.