On One Hand

March 29, 2004

The Mysterious Ways People Have Thought Of Things

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 1:51 am

Circumcision is one of the oldest forms of body modification, and one of the most common ancient rituals still carried out today. Currently practiced primarily in Muslim countries, Israel, and the United States, circumcision was first performed by indigenous cultures of East Africa but only really took off when it was adopted by the Jews. A vague explanation of the Semitic practice can be found in the Christian Old Testament and the Jewish Torah, while modern-day justifications for the sensitive procedure vary among differing medical journals and opposing schools of thought. But the description of the Jewish practice of circumcision, I can’t help but insist, leaves the reader absolutely bewildered as to how the heck these guys actually came up with the idea. It’s a curious thought to imagine how the Jewish Rabbis originally thought of the ritual. I can envision them all sitting around a cozy campfire, brainstorming solutions to the cultural challenges that the small, struggling Jewish civilization faced against the big, heathen world they lived in. How they ultimately came up with circumcision, however, is well beyond me. “But how can we define and unite ourselves as a culture,” one of them might have asked, “while at the same time be marked as men of the true chosen People of God?” The Rabbis would all scratch their heads and contemplate the difficult question, until one of them would exclaim, “Hey, I know! We could all cut off that piece of skin at the tip of our dicks!” The group would set to murmuring and bickering about the idea, until at last the plan would be accepted and carried out on all male Jewish children born from then on. If the bewildered gentiles of the age weren’t on the floor laughing over the new Jewish religious tradition, they were at least all adequately deterred from ever, for any reason, deciding to try to pass as Jewish.

To this version of the history of circumcision, an Orthodox Jew (or Muslim) might answer that circumcision was not invented by a bunch of Rabbis, but rather, it was communicated through the prophet Abraham and came directly from God. If this is really the case, it gives me quite a new perspective on God’s sense of humor. How God, in all His infinite knowledge and wisdom, could have come up with such an instruction, is almost more puzzling than the question of why modern people who are not Jewish, and therefore are not obliged to be circumcised, would ever want to go through with the procedure. I think it’s good when a modern country decides to adopt diverse tidbits of culture from different groups of people all over the world, but dear God, did we as Americans have to choose CIRCUMCISION? Why couldn’t we have borrowed yarmulkes from Jewish people, earlocks, or something nice like that? Yarmulkes are so pleasant. Much more pleasant, no doubt, than cutting off the ends of our penises. Wearing a yarmulke instead of getting circumcised would be like, putting the little covering back on the end of your dick and putting a new little covering on the top of your head, too, for good measure.

I read somewhere that over sixty percent of the nerve endings in a penis that are involved specifically in sexual stimulation are in the foreskin. When I heard that, I was really angry at my parents for being so callous when I was born. When I asked my mother why she had decided to have me circumcised as a baby, “I didn’t want you to wonder why you don’t look like your Dad” was nowhere near an adequate excuse for putting me through a lifetime of sensory deprivation. There are procedures that can restore the look of an uncircumcised penis, but it’s all just vanity; there is no way to get the nerve endings back. Fortunately, I think that sex is very much a mental thing, and your brain can probably find ways to compensate for the nerve endings that aren’t there. My biggest consolation is that, by being circumcised, I’m in the minority – a place that I almost always love to be – by being in the group of only 20% of the global male population with a commando-style penis. It’s still really stupid, though, that my parents could be all in favor of cutting of the tip of babies’ dicks yet think that something like an eyebrow piercing is “disgusting mutilation of a human body.” I’ve taken a while to think about this, but I’m almost completely determined now that I’m not getting my kid circumcised, should I ever happen to have a son.

March 26, 2004

Pieces of WHAT?

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 9:56 pm

I just saw Pieces of April tonight. Though I acknowledge that I am neither a connoisseur of cinema nor a credible film critic, allow me to divulge just this once that Pieces of April is an excellent movie. IFC and United Artists often produce well-made films, but this exquisite masterpiece far surpassed all the like.

OMG that sounded sooo freakin’ pretentious – what the heck is that shit, talking like I’m all cultured and classy or some shit? Let me rephrase what I just said: I saw Pieces of April tonight, and it was really good. I ‘m not a huge movie buff, but I really liked Pieces of April, enough that I would recommend it to anybody who wants to see something good. I’m a big fan of independent films, and Pieces of April really rings true to the independent style. I hate how in Hollywood, all the movies involve characters who either start out millionaires or come to inherit millions of dollars somewhere in the course of the film, so that a moneyed lifestyle is clearly portrayed as a necessary requirement for a fulfilling life. The fact that the protagonist is grotesquely rich is not necessarily the centerpiece of the movie, but it’s there, and is vital to the movie’s setting, if not vital to the plot. I appreciate the way that Indie movies often break that pattern, in showing realistic people in realistic situations who find meaning in a realistic story rather than in something that most of us will never have. Pieces of April is pretty true to that, and a good proportion of the movie takes place in New York which alone is a good enough reason for me to like the movie. This might seem odd, but I’d really like to live in the neighborhood from that movie. The people in the building were sketchy to all hell and some of them seemed downright dangerous, but I’d be willing to cope with all that. I’ve talked about it before so I know it comes as no surprise to any of you who frequently read this journal, but something about New York City really calls to me.

There are so many possibilities as to what I might want to do with my life, and the only thing I know for sure is that I’ll probably bounce around quite a bit. I’m starting to take an interest in movie production, and although I wouldn’t ever entertain some outlandish pipe dream of being a big director or producer, I wouldn’t mind at all being involved in some part of the production process of independent films. It might be a good way to use a journalism degree. The problem is, the type of person that can easily jump around from career to career without being rich first is the type of person who can easily build connections, and I’m not really the type who can do that. At this point in my life I’m connected to pretty much nobody, although I could probably easily get to know a few drug dealers if I really wanted to. (And don’t worry, I don’t particularly want to.) This is how connected I am: here I am, almost nineteen years old, having no idea where I’m going to live next year and absolutely terrified at the proposition of having to get a job where I could fuck up and get fired at any time. Have I ever told any of you that I think I have social anxiety disorder? Well I think I do. I know they have pills for it now; I, too, saw the commercial, and when I did, I thought now what the fuck is that! Now they have a pill now that can help you be less anxious around people? Next thing you’ll know they’ll be coming out with pills to cure being melodramatic or wanting to crossdress or biting your nails too low. I think they already have one for people who don’t like classical music. I’m just waiting in dread for the day they start chemically treating test tube babies to fulfill the correct greek-letter role in the social hierarchy or ripping out your tongue for saying the word “I.”

March 21, 2004

Poetic Ego

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 4:35 pm

I found a poem in an old High School English textbook that I really enjoyed. I thought I would post it here, and write about my own thoughts on it. I couldn’t preserve the complicated indentation of the poem because the [TAB] key doesn’t do anything on livejournal.

Marrianne Moore
“Poetry”

I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in
it after all a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the
same thing may be said for all of us – that we do not admire what we cannot understand. The bat,
holding on upside down in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician – case after case could be cited did one wish it; nor is it valid to discriminate against “business documents and school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,
nor til the autocrats among us can be “literalists of the imagination” – above insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on one had, in defiance of their opinion –
the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is, on the other hand,
genuine then you are interested in poetry.

My response:

Among young people, I find it rather peculiar that everyone, barring only so few, is writing a book. Despite the advancement of cinema, theatre, television, technology, and all the like (all so many forms of the expression of thought), books maintain an enduring appeal to the extent that the production of a book is still to this day seen by the writer to be the timeless and ultimate glorification of himself, or of the ego as I shall call it. On so many instances I have heard one say “I am already this far through my book;” a memoir, a novel, or even more absurdly: an autobiography (no less!), as if at the age of twenty-one this person has accumulated enough profound thought and experience that his or her story would be of great asset to human society. Despite the fact that there are so many people in the world and such relatively little time we each spend reading books each day, we all think that our published work will easily buy a few hours of everyone’s time and a few dollars of everyone’s assets; that our own lives have been so adverse and our struggle so valid that our thoughts on politics, bullies, or what we will be having for dinner will be of great interest to the public at some time in the future.

Therefore I hereby swear off ever writing a book unless I know full well what my own hidden intentions are. If I ever write, I will write, not to bring glory to myself but because I believe I have been made privy through my average tribulations, by pure chance and nothing more that would be attributable to an already inflated self-esteem, to some argument that one individual, or group, or mankind on a whole can be made to benefit from, albeit likely on a minuscule scale. I will write, not because I want to be the one to say it, but because I think it needs to be said.

On a side note, all of our secret desires to be Jesus must die if we ever want our significant impact on society (something that all good-intentioned egotistical people hope for) to come to pass. If the only person in human history who ever did not secretly want to be some sort of messiah was Jesus himself, the news would come as no suprise at all to me – I know that Jesus had no choice but to be the messiah; he was, simply because he was the only person with enough spiritual maturity to know the message, and when one is the only individual in the world who knows the message, that person would be selfish not to reveal it. It is of particular note that, to the best of my knowledge, Jesus did not write a book, and if he ever did, it surely was lost long before any book about him that was to come was written that would survive and continue to alter the course of civilizations to this very day.

March 20, 2004

Spring Break

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 11:53 pm

“OH, I want to stay for the first few days so I don’t miss out on whatever might be going on here; I’ll be ready to come home on Monday,” I told my dad when he asked when I should be coming home for Spring Break. I was enthusiastic when Friday came and went and the last classes before an entire week of no school were completed.

On Saturday morning, I got up as I always do, a little late in the day but enthusiastic about having a week off. No one was in the halls and the campus was stone cold deserted, but no worries; one or two of my friends would doubtlessly be lingering in the halls of their own residence buildings and surely, if it turned out that everyone was gone, it wouldn’t hurt to spend a day or two by myself.

At three or so in the afternoon, having spent at least sixteen hours without food, I walked over to the dining hall to grab a bite to eat. I couldn’t see anyone there, so was glad to think that there wouldn’t be any lines. I got to the door to find the lights off and the building closed. Could the dining hall that is normally open all day be now restricted to only mealtimes? On the door was a sign that said that all dining facilities would be completely closed over Spring Break.

Lovely. Just bloody fucking lovely. I had no idea that there would be no meals this week. If I had known, I would have stocked up on food. Why am I always the last to know about these things? Saturday meals consisted of a handful of cereal, two candy bars from the vending machine, and one of the delicious Cup-O’-Noodles from my closet that, if left uneaten, are likely to outlive humanity by a million years. The no food thing is a challenging new development in my weekend but I’ll survive.

What’s even worse is that absolutely no one is around to occupy my attention. I have one friend who isn’t going home for Spring Break but she went to visit some friends in Denver for the night and won’t be back until tomorrow. She’ll be here for the whole of the break but by the time we would have a chance to actually hang out, I’ll already be gone. Today and tomorrow are my biggest concerns – two days with nothing to eat and absolutely nothing to do except sit on my computer or pace around campus or masturbate or desperately dial up friends to discover they are off having wonderful times in Mexico or Florida or California or skiing in fabulously pleasant weather up in the hills and are neglecting to answer their phones. Of course I could just call my dad and say “hey there is nothing to do here, please come pick me up early,” but that would be taking the easy way out. Besides, I made a commitment to be here Sunday evening so the earliest I could have him come get me is a few hours earlier than planned on Monday. I just wish I had a book or something. But no worries, I’ll get through this, and believe me, after two full days of being bored out of my mind, I’m sure I will never again take my busy schedule for granted.

March 18, 2004

Jesus Loves Nang

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 10:24 am

Last night I opened the bathroom door to a rush of warm air carrying a putrid, nauseating odor. The men’s bathroom was under assault from a terrible and mysterious stink, unchecked by the wide-open window and the scented bleach detergent residue still on the floors from the room’s last cleaning. I went inside to discover that someone had evidently managed to shit all over the front of the middle toilet stall, covering the bottom two-thirds of that door and a good quarter of the door to the right. The white painted surfaces were splattered with a mixture of colorful chunks in a sticky, liquid base, now caked and drying. How the hell did someone shit that high in the air? I wondered out loud, to which a guy washing his hands at the sink replied “that’s definitely puke dude.”
Yeah, I thought, puke would probably make a lot more sense. “Oh, right,” I said.

Later I unhappily discovered that this guy managed to vomit not only on the doors but all over the toilet seats as well. There are three toilets in the men’s room, which is convenient because when one is soiled it leaves the other two available. Somehow, this person managed to throw up on all three toilet seats, and on the stall doors, and on the floor in two places, and on the toilet paper dispenser in the stall on the right. And after all that, this guy still had the energy to run to the corner and puke in the men’s room trash can. We seem to be in the midst of a very talented individual.

It isn’t pleasent preparing to take a shower in the morning when you are certain to encounter in the bathroom an aftermath of vomit that would surely still be fermenting on the floors and walls of that God-forsaken room. I closed my eyes and held my breath as I opened the bathroom door to find that, not only was the vomit still there, but that the horrid scum had been smeared and tracked to entirely new locations of the roo – no, not true at all. The bathroom was totally clean, with bleach detergent residue afresh in the corners and crannies of the room. The toilet stall doors were clean, as were the toilets themselves, and the floors had been thoroughly scrubbed. The residence hall’s cleaning lady, an older Asian woman who I think is from Nepal, must’ve come in to clean the room early today to answer complaints or because she noticed the mess and the smell. God bless Nang Mathomidthay. Jesus loves you!

March 14, 2004

OH Balls

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 12:28 pm

On Sunday morning, I got up to take a shower with Lorelei’s absence still heavy on my mind. My biggest fear was that she could still in her room after all this time.

It’s interesting how people refuse to put two and two together when the situation is dire. A few days ago, Lorelei came to her dorm, where I was waiting for her, to complain about another girl’s bathroom habits.

“Every time I go in there,” Lorelei explained, “she’s sitting on the floor of the bathroom stall, doing God-knows-what. It’s extremely sketchy.”
I asked her, “Does she sit on the floor facing out or does she face the toilet?”
“She sits on her knees and faces the toilet,” said Lorelei. “Then she gets really quiet whenever anyone comes in, like she doesn’t want people to know she’s in there. Then she brushes her teeth.”
“She brushes her teeth inside the stall?” I asked for clarification.
“Yeah. What the hell is she doing? Why does she get ready for class in there. It’s so sketchy.”

Oh, GOOD QUESTION, Sherlock Holmes. I gave Lorelei the suggestion (I thought it should be painfully obvious) that the girl we were speaking of might be throwing up regularly after meals.

“Hmm… you might be right; that would make sense,” Lorelei said.

And here I was on the way to take a shower, just a few days after that revealing conversation about bulimia, and Lorelei is missing. I had been having a bad feeling about the situation from the beginning but now that Lorelei had been gone three days I was starting to get scared. I knocked on her door frequently, just in case she should be there, and now on the way to the shower I paused to do it yet again. This time, I noticed a lingering and horrifying stench coming from her room. The smell was somewhere between an odor reminiscent of a nursing home and the stink of a dead animal. It was a terrible fact to discover, since I knew, very well, that no one had seen Lorelei leave her room and that she may, very well, still be in there. Lorelei takes antidepressants regularly to prevent herself from getting very depressed, anxious, and impulsive. I know she has talked about hating to be dependent on drugs and I know she wants to wean herself off of them, but I wasn’t sure if she would try cutting them off completely considering how dangerous it could be. It was a scary thought that she may have decided to quit taking her medication despite the risks. I didn’t want to think about what might have happened Thursday night. The connection between the presence of the smell, the antidepressants, and Lorelei’s absence was a connection I was not yet quite willing to make.

I stood in front of the door gathering my thoughts together, wondering what I could do or who I could tell. There was little doubt in my mind that Lorelei was now lying, decomposing, in her bed or in some awkward position on the floor of her room, producing the smell that was strong enough after three days to diffuse through the heavy wooden door. Usually when I’m in a panic the first person I talk to is Lorelei, and now she’s gone. It was so difficult to comprehend. We had been planning to get an apartment together. We were planning to start going to church together. We were planning a conference in the fall together, along with a bunch of other people. We were planning to help each other through school. We were planning to stay friends for a long time.

I remembered the note I left on her door earlier. “Lorelei, leave a note on my door when you get home,” it read, with a stern recommendation to never disappear unannounced again. I thought I would take advantage of the last lingering hope I had to check my door and see if there was a note. I turned toward my room and slowly made my way in that direction.

I didn’t get five steps when I heard the bathroom door squeak behind me. The girls’ bathroom is right across from Lorelei’s room, and being as it is in a residence hall full of vain, well-maintained college-aged girls, the girls’ bathroom is a busy place. “Matty!” I heard from behind me in a familiar voice, and turned around to find Lorelei coming out of the bathroom with a backpack and coat on.

“What the fuck are you doing still alive?” I said, uncomfortably adjusting to the new revelation that my fears were for naught but obviously relieved. She laughed and said that she had gone home for the weekend, which is what I had been hoping was the case, and went on to explain that she had told me on Thursday that she was going home and that she was pretty sure I heard her because I allegedly acknowledged that it would screw up our plans to meet on Friday. I said I had no recollection of it, which is true. But no matter, I guess this whole thing was overblown. The smell in her room was Lorelei’s own fault; she never took out her trash before she left. I pride myself in being an undramatic person, but after having emailed everyone to say that I was worried about the worst to find that Lorelei had, indeed, simply gone home for the weekend, I guess I’ve blown that desired reputation of being drama-free all to hell.

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 3:23 am

I’m a little worried about Lorelei. I haven’t seen her since I walked her to a meeting Thursday night. Some of her friends and I have been trying to get a hold of her since Friday morning but haven’t been able to. Lorelei and I are planning to get an apartment together with two other guys next year, and we were supposed to meet as a group on Friday so that we could get organized and hopefully work out a clear plan. None of us could get a hold of Lorelei on Friday to meet; her door is locked and her cell phone either turned off or without batteries. Mind you all that Lorelei has never gone an entire day without knocking on my door because she’s bored or lonely or needs someone to go with to get food.

I don’t know whether I should be worried about her or not. No – I take that back; I am worried, but what I don’t know is if it’s to the point where I should do something about it. There is always the possibility that some sort of emergency happened and she went home to her grandparents’ place in Colorado Springs without having the time to tell anybody that she was leaving. Maybe in the panic she forgot her cell phone or maybe wherever she is she just didn’t turn it on. It would be dumb for me to start a whole panic and then find out that it was for naught when she shows up tomorrow or Monday morning as chipper as ever. But I’m even more afraid that I’ll wait too long to tell someone that she’s missing and then find out later that something could have been prevented if I had acted sooner. I have let some of her friends know that she’s disappeared but that’s all I’ve done so far. If I don’t see her tomorrow than I am at least going to tell the RA. I don’t know what else to do. I just have a bad feeling about this.

March 7, 2004

Funny Story

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 1:53 pm

Last night I was at a un-official party. It started out as a get-together, but then turned into a full blown party when the alcohol arrived. There was some drinking going on, far too much drinking on the part of a certain few individuals, and then there was all the general chaos and debauchery that makes college parties so great.

Halfway through the night, this guy was sitting on the floor with a cup of alcohol when a drunk person stumbled over him and made him spill his drink on the carpet. As the drunk person made his way to the couch, the room was suddenly filled with the most disgusting odor. We figured out that the spilled drink had released some sort or weird scent in the carpet, and so we all cleared out of the room.

A few minutes later I was outside smoking with the guy who had spilled his drink and one other girl. The guy spontaneously decided to hug the girl for some reason, and suddenly he recoiled in disgust to tell the girl “you have some sort of weird shit all over your back.” On his hands was this whitish substance resembling tuna salad or maybe cream-of-mushroom casserole. I was trying to think of whether there was any tuna salad at the party. Being that it was a college party, as opposed to a senior-citizen get-together, there was probably no tuna salad. When the girl turned around for us we discovered how much of it was on her. Whatever that shit was, it was all over her ass and lower back. She had evidently sat in it earlier in the evening. I figured it had something to do with the awful odor in the living room, and told the guy he really ought to wash his hands. After figuring out what had happened, I went inside to break the sad news to everyone inside.

“Hey everybody, check the couch,” I said from the door while holding my cigarette outside behind me. “Laura has puke all over her ass so obviously somebody threw up on the couch. If somebody puked on the couch, that would explain the smell in the room,” I went on, “so you all might want to check the couch now because I am pretty sure it’s puke that’s all over her back.” As sorry as the unfortunate situation was for girl who was covered in puke and for the owner of the home that was now soiled, I have to admit that I found the evening’s revelation a little bit amusing. Wait a minute, what am I saying? Fuck that – it was fucking hilarious. I went back outside and started cracking up, trying to show sympathy for the drunk girl with the puke on her back (who was actually taking it very well) but at the same time having quite a good laugh about the situation, laughing especially about the fact that we hadn’t had fucking clue what was going on with the smell in that room until we saw Laura’s ass and put two and two together.

Apparently, I found out later, a few guys had actually seen this person throw up on the couch and had simply neglected to mention it to anyone else. So, while the rest of us were saying “what the hell is that smell, what the hell did that guy’s drink let out of the carpet” and while Laura was walking over to the couch to have a seat, these people had known all along that there was vomit on the couch cushion and decided to keep it a secret. When I went back inside, a few guys had all the pillows and the single cushion (the couch was actually a futon, but that makes no difference) on the ground and were drunkenly scrubbing it off with damp towels and Febreeze. They had it clean just in time for it to be puked on by somebody else. (Okay he sort of missed the cushion and puked on the floor, but it would be really funny if it actually hit the cushion right after they had it clean, so lets just pretend that he puked on it.) I wish I had someone with me to see everything from my perspective. I was probably laughing harder than most other people were. If all you consider about the evening was the puking and the crazy ass ways that we found out about it, the party last night was a really great time.

Argh

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 3:25 am

Rarely am I bitchy, pessimistic, or dramatic, so since I am secure in the fact that I am a very laid-back person, I think I’ll let it out just this once. Everybody loves undramatic people and I love them too, but you all need to realize how fucking hard it is to stay undramatic when there is drama going on inside you. I just got home from a party so I’ll blame the alcohol if any of you think that the following rant is out of my character.

Let me just say that I am getting more and more frustrated with my life lately. I’m sexually and emotionally deprived, and I can’t seem to get people to think of me the way I’d like them to think of me. People started calling me a pothead which isn’t true at ALL (I’ve been high like three times in my entire life) but I just went with it because at least that way I have some sort of control over what they’re saying about me and at least I have an excuse for being distant.

I think I’ve taken too much time envisioning what I want my life to be like. I spent too much time making the idea of having a relationship be the center of my life, and since no relationship has ever worked out for me for even a brief period of time, I feel like I’m not left with much to be happy about. People who I thought really liked me, it turns out, just acted interested because they had some temporary need to fulfill or I reminded them of someone or they just thought I was cute and the connection didn’t run very deep. Add to that the fact that I’m always left on the sidelines by my own doing, (for some people that’s alright, but for me its the last place that would feel natural to me) and I’m really hating the situation I’m in right now. Whenever a person acts like they like me in any sort of way, I can’t believe that they’re for real. I always doubt them, and I get angry with people who compliment me too much because I think they’re being phony or patronizing me. (A word of advice: never compliment me a lot to try to make me feel better; it doesn’t work on me.) There are two people in the world right now who I would trust their compliments, and I could name them if I wanted to, but I won’t do that here. One of them I can hardly talk to because his honesty is so intimidating.

I hate to say I judge my life based on what other people are doing, but I think that’s the place I’m in right now. I’ve been saying to myself that it’s OK that I can’t get into a relationship because, after all, I’m at the carefree college age where no one is interested in love or emotion and that’s why I can’t find anybody. Of course I’M the pro-relationship type at this age, but I’ve been telling myself that everyone else is immature and horny so that’s why I can’t seem to find anybody for a positive experience. But now that everyone around me, especially the types of people I would be most likely to get along with, are finding partners and getting for themselves what I’ve always wanted, I have to admit that there is something more to my lack of luck than just the age category. There has got to be something to me that puts me in this left-out place. It’s weird, because although I’m happy to see them together because I’m so glad those types of committed people exist, at the same time I’m angry at myself for not being able to make it happen for me. And on top of that paradox I’m annoyed by my immaturity in thinking of my own misery when other people are happy because I know that it’s a very selfish attitude. It’s not even like I want a “boyfriend,” I just want a person, guy or girl, gay or straight, who I can love and who can love me, with no ulterior motives.

Let me just say also that I think suicide is one of the most stupid, selfish things that anyone can do. Not to criticize anyone who has done it or anyone has attempted it, because I know they have their reasons and deserve respect, but I still feel like it’s a very selfish thing. My family has gone through two premature deaths; one was my uncle dying from HIV at age 35 in 1997 and then my cousin died in a car accident at age 21 in 1998. Now, six years later, it would be horrible for me to put them through a third death if I were to do something. If I were to kill myself, sure I would get an easy out from all the un-reconcilable pains and difficulties of my life, but my parents would be in hell for the rest of theirs’. My friends would be shocked and hurt, and people who were mean to me would feel guilty for a long time, each wondering if he or she is the one who put me over the edge. People who put faith in me or respected me would be disappointed. It would be such a selfish thing to put everyone through all that, especially considering that many of the problems I’m facing right now could be temporary. Immature people are suicidal, and if there is anything that I know I am not, it’s immature. I’m far from perfect, but at least I have my thoughts together. Despite all my disappointments I still feel like there are these perfect people out there, the people I can finally love completely and get total and undivided support from, and it’s just that haven’t met them yet or don’t know who they are. These people are real, specific individuals, they have names and personalities, and they need me just as much as I need them. God knows when we are supposed to meet; its all a part of some plan, and it might even be very soon that we find each other. If I were to remove myself from the world, they would be just as lonely, for the rest of their lives, as I am now. Not to mention the fact that killing myself would eliminate any possibility of ever getting the things that I want.

Anyway, I’m doing OK. Most of the time when I get depressed its very temporary. I actually feel very good right now that I’ve written this down, but sometimes I feel awkward feeling good when there’s no one to share it with. It’s like, what’s the point? Anyway, things are going to be alright. I need to cut back on cigarettes, need to work out more, and just be better to myself in general. I need to be more spiritual and learn to love myself without feeling like I’m being narcissistic about it, and I need to learn to put myself on a limb more often even when I’m afraid I might make a mistake. You don’t get anywhere without taking risks. I don’t know, there are a lot of things I need to do right now. It would be nice if I had a coach or something, but oh well, this is an incomplete thought…

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