don't publish this, self. no, really, don't.

canterbury
sunshine

i am lonely here. i feel that i've been lonely all my life. i want someone, one person, to give a shit. someone who gives a shit and accepts me for who i am- who is honest and communicative, who is grateful to know me, who feels better about themselves because of the adoration with which i look at them. i have met a brief yet appalling string of douchebags since living here- flakes, whores, vague and blase twits. i cannot blame seattle because they -mostly- come from someplace else.
...and i wear my neediness like a fucking veil. i have become part of the problem- unable to hold anyone's gaze, giggling nervously and turning away, eyes glazed over, staring at my journal or anywhere introverted where i can feign distraction- unsure of what i would ever say, and who would want to listen, should i ever have the opportunity to do so.
and i'm fucking mad. i'm pissed. i'm pissed that the 1st photo of b i've seen in 12 years made me squint, then inhale sharply. i'm pissed that what-the-fuck showed up at my house last night with a fucking hickey on his neck and i still gave him a 2 hour massage. i'm pissed that when p said hello i just smiled lamely. i'm pissed that i cut out of class this afternoon and went to georgetown and looked down or away the entire time. i'm pissed that i'm healthy -for who knows how long- and otherwise as successful and fulfilled as i've ever been in my life and i still masturbate on my trampoline. i'm pissed that i'm relieved to come home alone, to my own shit, knowing that i don't have to deal with anyone else. and i'm pissed that i only think about t when i remind myself to, and that something that i thought meant everything never really, and still never really, meant anything at all. anything.
i'm pissed that all my fucking journal entries sound the same. i'm pissed that every time i write, i'm by myself, alone in an empty room, opting for a table rather than a seat at the bar. i'm pissed that i have "be bilingual" as my fucking dream, my plan, and have never fucking achieved it. i'm pissed that my 'art' is limited to intricate doodles in the margins of every page of notes i've taken in massage school- and if that doesn't indicate that perhaps i'm on the wrong path, that my 'skills' may be better utilized elsewhere, what does? i'm pissed that my wrists are sore after using more pressure than i was comfortable with, pressure that he demanded, and his feedback was still snarky. i'm pissed that i didn't disinfect the table as soon as he got off, and that i'll have to before i feel comfortable laying on it again.
i'm pissed that i love this city as much as i do. it makes it really fucking hard to truly think about leaving- and it makes it that much more painful to stay- an unrequited crush, unreasonable, pathetic. i keep passively hoping that *things will happen*. things don't happen. and when they do, when the planets align, the birds sing- things never go as planned. when i crushed out on him 3 years ago i would have never fucking considered the reality i know today. and i'm fucking pissed that i'm forced to be jaded because of such things.
but, god damn it, i'm not. i am still so fucking idealistic and unrealistically hopeful that the cynical, lucid fragments of my brain cringe in disgust. i still believe in love. i believe in respect. goodness. honesty. knowing yourself before allowing someone else to know you. holding them to the same standards. being proud and comfortable with who you are and anticipating the rest of the world to fall into place. this theory does satisfy my annoyingly passive tendencies. this, whether i respect the thought process or not (which i really don't), allows me to justify sitting back and being an untouchable twit, hoping that eventually somebody who is socially inept (except when they approach me!) and disarmingly intelligent (with base-humor tendencies!) will saunter up and make themselves a major, major part of my world.
i hate to say this, hate to admit it: i need other people. i fucking need to feel acknowledged, appreciated, liked. and i don't feel that way very often here. i don't feel that way very fucking often here at all. and i get pissed off at myself most of all- wondering what i should and could be doing differently, what missteps i inadvertantly took along the way, why this is the norm i am both comforted and hungered by.
envy is an accurate sin. i just want what other people have. i want a casual arm around my shoulders, the smell of them against my skin, eye contact, shit-giving. i just want that. and in a mood like tonight it seems that i'm the only person in the world who's by myself. and i hate feeling sorry for myself. it makes me feel ridiculous and vulnerable and highly unlovable. writing it, making it real, is even worse. and the worst part? i will still be glad to go home alone, to wake up alone, to know fairly accurately what the day will hold. i rely on that. i push so much away before it even contemplates approaching.

*verbatim, from my journal, 05/20. making it public makes it comical and therefore not real.