I mean...your Grandma has a tattoo. But it means something to her - that's the only reason you should do something, dear. If it means something to you.

What do I love enough to brand myself with?

Is it bad that I am having trouble figuring that out? What I love enough?

I had another revealation...i am perfectly happy sitting by myself & watching people. What makes me uncomfortable is other people's discomfort when i do so.

Say something.

Something...anything...just to let me know that you are there. That's all I'm asking - to know if you are there. Because if you're not, I can't be either.

I wish I had the ability to be nostalgic - write pretty,flowy, meaningful words to commemorate 2009 and wax poetical about my hopes for 2010. I seem to lack the gene that makes me get all gooey and tearful when it comes to the end of one and the beginning of the other. We start all over all the time; well, at least I do.

What's the big deal?

So, to you, 2009, I say: Adios. I am happy for my health, my family, friends and good fortune.

2010: Let's see whatcha got.

'Cause I'm game.

Can't stand the quiet noise
that infiltrates my ears
and makes
my brain do cartwheels
I need to fill the white sound
with solid black knowledge

It's hard to type when you are laying down...

Here's the thing. I think that I am attracted to half-people...well, half-men, for a reason particular to my situation. "What we have here, is a failure, to communicate."

Not half-man like, as in Centaur, but half, as in, not whole, not complete, no matured, not ripe, not ready. Sometimes I feel that I am drawn to those who are still cookin' because I am too...simmering away at this vile brew that's festering and heating up inside of me. You see, I have to let the nastiness get hot and boil over - before I can create a culinary masterpiece that good and right.

And sometimes I think that it has not so much to do with me being done as it does with me not wanting to be held accountable; it's easier to be dismissive and not have to try with someone who is not a finished product. Still struggling, his missteps are forgiven. Because some how it seems, if he were grown, those errant choices would be more grievous.

But who is ever done? Who is ever not searching? Completely content? Even when you are happy, you always have an eye peeled for whatever it is that will make you happy next. We're like sharks...we can't just be still, or we'll die.

And aren't we a sum of all our parts? Past, present, nasty, good; we are all of these contradictions that we've created for ourselves in life, right?

Right?