Last time I mentioned some gay stuff.
Was it truly news? Indeed a few years ago I referred to a creature holding my old camera (and to date the only camera I’ve had that would allow me to take a picture in the dark) as a “gay wizard,” but I never identified it as me. And I still haven’t!

The line about “odd fondness” from the previous notice I wanted to redact; I don’t like the idea of people thinking I’m even capable of an odd urge for anything, imaginary or otherwise. I wanted to prove it was possible, that odd focuses didn’t have to rule everything. Anyway, back in the past, even after one note’s worth of caveated gayness I already doubted that I was in a good situation, as the one which followed it exhibits, somewhat more mopily, after what interval I cannot guess:

2009, 2010 or thereabouts
At last I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand it. It seems like such a waste of time, and like such an easy thing for one person to take more seriously than the other. “Sweet nothings.” I always hated that phrase. Meaningless statements that do nothing more than reaffirm a person’s validity to itself. That sort of thing shouldn’t be necessary. I tried to keep myself from soliciting it. Yet once I started getting something that resembled it I felt entitled to it, and worthless when it was cut off. And why? Since I never deserved it to begin with, short of the other person coming to its senses I don’t know what changed. Apparently now I need someone to say nice things to me and create the impression that they are meant, and fairly regularly.


I do not want to need this. It makes me feel psychotic. It makes me want to interrogate this other person as to why it is “avoiding” me, and once you’ve shown that you’re suspicious you can never yourself be trusted again, I don’t think. And the truth is that I’ve been suspicious of just about every “friend” I’ve ever had. This one just hurts more, and so I feel more desperate to take actions I will regret. This is not good. I have actual problems that are already hard to solve. Saying “I cannot solve this problem because somebody won’t return my calls even though obviously he’s around because I see him leaving comments on other people’s pages who do they think they are,” is not a proper way of handling them.

Love? I do not want to love this person. We both have more important things to do, and I don’t think he thinks he’s gay. I don’t think I am but over purely semantic disagreements. English is a stupid language that is hard to learn because it uses one word to mean a bunch of things. “Sex” can refer to simply biological characteristics but also to an act that I find repulsive, and thus I avoid both of the word’s uses, as well as any word which contains it.

“*hugs*” That was new to me. I thought that was a special thing. It isn’t. Everybody gives *hugs* to everyone else. I only wanted to give *hugs* to one person. I only want *hugs* from a person I would actually like to hug.

I understand that if a person who made you, I, me, feel like the best thing in existence suddenly appears to feel differently, how morale can suffer. However, I am old (26 years at that point) to be experiencing this for the first time. I have no resistance to it. Howeverer, I am also too sensible to convert this into aggression against others, and I’m too optimistic that I’ve misunderstood to challenge the person who is making me feel this way, and so I have no proper release for this raging lamentation.

In a way, it was all I had. Loving another was not a thing I expected to happen, and I don’t expect it to happen again. I acknowledge it is possible, but when it happened it was highly unusual. It was like tripping over the tip of a complete dinosaur skeleton buried in the ground when I walked outside to get my [household’s] mail. I don’t think there are many complete dinosaur skeletons still buried anywhere, much less right underneath the surface in a densely populated area below sea level. I can currently not remember what it was that drove me forward just a year ago, before I had known the good part. And I get little enough done as it is.

I can’t hate him. Writing this I still believe I have possibly misunderstood. Even if I haven’t, and it’s true, I know he suffers a lot. A lot of pain, a lot of sickness, a lot of misjudging, a lot of psychotic people on the internet (some like me, some not so much). I know that I have little to offer beyond awkwardness and neediness. I thought he was comfortable with that. I felt welcome. I felt needed. I don’t know that I can forget that unless it happens again. Although this recent thought of mine suggests that the acceptance and approval, and above all the special position of note were in part imagined by me and not deliberately made to seem that way by the fellow, I enjoyed the delusion. It was real-er to me than some blurry 3-d movie might ever be.

He did some things I thought were questionable, and he gave some justifications that I found questionable, but I could usually get my mind around them. I like to think I am not a proud person, but I suppose I am. However, this pride is easily melted.

The love is nice while it lasts, but devastating when it’s done, much like “food” from Taco Bell. Any amateur dietician will tell you should not eat the taco bell stuff. Popular consensus is that Taco Bell is bad while love is good.
There are a lot of lonely people out there. I’m glad there are people who will listen to them, but they should not let it go this far. We want very desperately to be loved, and will misinterpret anything we can. I’ve seen this before, but this is my first time from the inside.

it’s sort of like that 2004 King Kong movie, where the gorilla loves the tiny little human even though there’s no possible way they can consumate the relationship, and the human has to act like she loves the gorilla because the script tells her to. So at this point, I’m already far enough up the empire state building that falling off will kill me, but I am determined to do more damage when I fall than I currently would. Also, I just remembered that I’m only a regular sized gorilla that can’t finish college and that nobody really cares about one way or another.

By here I clearly have realized that I am writing a personal disaster memoir. Still a solid year before the dumb pony mishaps. Most of my haps are mishaps. It has lost all attempts to be amusing, though what I followed it with might still be sort of interesting for the truly perverse, and I don’t even say “raging lamentation” again. Fortunately I’m not desperate enough for their interest today to seek it, and so I shall cut it off here. Ideally it won’t be seen again.

I received a few messages of support after last time; I very much appreciate those, but I hope it did not appear that I was depressed! I was, but due to an accumulation of a number of factors, and this whole thing just happened to have resurfaced, it came to find me in the midst of them during November, two months after I had been glad it was “done” before my classes started, and at one moment the thought struck me that I absolutely had to get this stuff out “now,” but it’s nothing at all new. Yet I’d like to leave as much of it in 2011 as possible. I had three rather stressful classes, and the one easy class, introduction to theatre, which late into the semester required me to read the text of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, which is astoundingly not actually about that. Rather it tells of a disabled, ambiguously gay introvert surrounded by people with funny names and who won’t talk to his becancered father and who can’t be with the person he loves. In fact it’s worse than that, since the the “friend” Skipper kills himself over the gayness, and in the film version, which won’t acknowledge that gayness exists since it was made in the 1950s (which was kind of the point of the play, that these people are marginalized and made to feel ashamed, but rhubarbrhubarbcatroof), Skeepah is simply an all-around failure, and I couldn’t decide which of the pair I had more in common with, but somebody’s dead and it’s either me or my fault. I’m awful.

In fact the object of my afflictions is still alive, thankfully…I may have inadvertently implied that he wasn’t when I said I never had an opportunity to say how I felt; the issue there was that he always had a remarkable way of not getting messages, or setting things up so that he could say he hadn’t.

Even when we were on good terms too often I’d be talking to him -not even “away”- in a message thing and then he’d disappear, and then reappear the next day and be unaware of everything I’d said. Even if I’d just said “hello,” that kind of thing gets draining after a while. And he doesn’t read his email, so the only way to make absolutely sure he sees something is to post it in some sort of public space where
Oh that’s no good. But the automatically generated notice at least is totally tactful and reasonable, in the usual vein, o lucrative memetrepeneurial art site.

I still do not hate him. I wish I could! If he called me today I would become ludicrously cordial and probably back down considerably from any unpleasant things I typed here, which was a theme brought up in The Sound of Music, another film I watched while upset. (I wonder if my choice viewing material isn’t my real problem; I also caught myself sympathizing with King Arthur and Enry bloody Iggins (Judas as well but I don’t think he was supposed to have been in love with Jesus at any point)). Hating would be much easier. To have no doubt, to be confident I had done the right thing, or the rightest thing which was at the time feasible. I am moreso than I was but I never totally conquered it. Reliving being “blocked,” like right now, by going to his page to take a picture of the block notice, and also seeing who else he’s been talking to since it first arrived, isn’t helping.

Still I’m grateful for the anger sometimes, and hindsight now leaving me thus rather than sad. It makes getting over the situation (or absolutely not getting over it but coexisting with it without hating myself as much as I have potential to) easier. I’d hate to look back and see stuff I’d did that was awful and that I regretted. Which I know because I spent the first half of this year doing it! So next time I will resume attempting to be interesting, unless something else stupid happens.

This is most distressing!