it's quiet.  I'm at home, called-in again today.  Staying home, laying low, wrapped in soft thick clothes on a cool cloudy day.  I could learn to like this. 

Scratch all that.  As soon as it was typed, it changed.  I ordered a pizza from my fav pizza place and asked them to deliver it, but they don't deliver before 6 PM.  Now, even as I was saying, 'Oh, OK, I'll come and get it', I was thinking I should just wait an hour, maintain this nice recuperative comfort level, and continue this wonderful hibernation, away from work, tending my mild chills caressed within a fluffy sweater and cuddly sweat pants.  That's what I was thinking.  I got dressed and went out.  (I've never realized how very uncomfortable are the clothes I wear every day.) 

There is really something to be said for padding around softly in stocking feet, and somehow, with loins ungirded and feet unshod, it almost appears that all is right with the world.  If all Mankind were clad as I am today, we would scarce consider war, or ever rise in anger against another.  Dresses, fellows!  Don your dresses, and love! 

I've snacked, and now I must nap; how old I must seem.  Oh well.  Old is neither bad, or good.  Just inevitable.  Thanks for stopping by—it's so very nice to have you.  And do stop back later, won't you?  Before midnight I'll have a right proper installment here...

 told you I'd be back.  Right now, contemplating a proper installment is making my heart ache. 

I swear, he's the me I woulda been...  if. 

When I write, I just do it.  It doesn't matter how important the words are to me—and they are very important—or how badly I might fuck them up.  Still, I venture bravely out and put down what I've got.  If I fumble and lose them, or if I can't find them, or if I don't have enough, or if I have way too many, it doesn't matter.  I just write, and then I go from there. 

That's how I write.  That's how I wish I lived. 

Often words won't come to me when I have something to say, and at other times, they crowd around, looking for a meaning.  It doesn't bother me a whole lot because that's the way words are.  But words don't get hurt when I fail them.  People get hurt.  And so people scare me; because I am inevitably going to hurt them.  I don't want to do that.  I know it's just the way people are, or rather it's just the way life is, but somewhere in my life, I decided I'd rather be dead than be responsible for another humans pain.  So, words have become my friends, but in the back of my mind there's a crowd of neglected, ..friends I guess, or would-be friends, human beings who cared about me once.  Some of them still do, but at some point in my relationship with every single one of them I came up against a wall inside of me, a curtain hiding me, and examining it tonight is breaking my heart. 

Remember this if you have a hard time recalling what exactly 'irony' means; I struggled with friendship, so I substituted the isolation of writing (I know it's not nearly an equivalent, and I know there's all sorts of intellectual dishonesty going on there—like how the hell can I write about life, or ANYthing for that matter, when I'm not even living?!—but, hey, we're human, and we do those kinds of things.)  In putting this journal online, I was betting on anonymity, and figuring that nobody would care, at least not too much.  I mean the Internet is synonymous with insincerity (remember, I'm a cynic).  So what better place for me to pour out my heart without any of the risks of being taken seriously?  The irony is that somebody heard, somebody read, somebody listened and I'm right back where I started.  I have to respond. 

But I probably won't.  See how well I have evaded really saying anything here?  And remember JP?  Everything hurts, it's all upside down, I don't know how to walk or even just stand still, I only know how to run. 

 if I knew how to make it different, I would.  Naw, that's bullshit.  The truth is, if I dared to venture out and tried to discover how to make it different, I might.  And that's way scarier, and more damning than pleading ignorance.  I mean who the hell would want to admit that their isolation was their own fault, and who would want to leave the security of that isolation to go and maybe hurt somebody or get hurt?  I might. 

I might, but damn, I'm scared.  I freeze more than I melt.  And I feel real crappy right now, and I'm really irritable, because this is the center of all my issues.  I'm still sitting here (it's 5AM) thinking it might not be so bad if these chills and this aching chunky cough meant that I was dying, finally.  And then I think, summer's almost here...

And I love summer.  It reminds me... it reminds me of a lot.  I really have to go now, "...to sleep, perchance to dream..."  Good night and good morning.

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