How not to be lonely when you're alone

or: Solitary Entertainment Doesn't HAVE to be Private (wait, that sounds messed up)

Let me preface this by saying this is not a play for sympathy or any shit like that. This is how it is. I'm used to it, even cool with it. Relax. Being self-aware is a GOOD thing.

I'm apparently not the kind of dude people necessarily want around all the time. I don't know WHY. Maybe dealing with a deaf dude is a pain. Maybe I have a subtle yet disagreeable odor. Maybe I'm funny-looking. Social niceties being what they are, no one tells me. I do have a tendency toward deep thoughts, esoteric insights and unrestricted (often probably completely inappropriate) communication. I can see how this could be offputting and preferable in small doses. (Or maybe it's my self-deprecating humor. In which case I'm really going for full pariah with this blog. *grin*)

Point is, I'm on my own a lot. I used to think this made me a loner, but I actually do like talking to people, exploring, and generally being social. You don't devote over a decade of your life to helping your fellow man without caring a great deal about them. So: Being social + not having company. You know the answer to this equation.

Loneliness is a problem I guess a lot of people have, and each solves it their own way (or they don't, and that way lies madness). Given that a dear friend is currently dealing with a species of this, and that I just LOVE to write about shit anyway, I thought I'd share my personal anodyne. It's not perfect, but I think it's reasonably interesting (yes, I'm aware of the bloated ego. I bitchslap myself regularly to keep it down. Again, relax).

It all boils down to getting out of your own head. Loneliness is the ugly, inbred cousin of boredom. Below are some suggestions. Some may seem best suited to those whose social ineptitude borders on tragic, but hey. Maybe one of those guys will read this and be helped. Or maybe you just never thought of it yourself.

1) Explore: This is one of my favorite things to do. I'll find a part of town that seems interesting and spend hours (if not days), wandering its streets. I'm fortunate perhaps that I live in, you know, one of the biggest cities in the country, so I've lots of places to go. But whatever. I'm willing to bet most people don't venture very far off the beaten track. This is about doing so. Thus:

1a) Take the road not travelled. This is, naturally, provided it is safe for you to do so, but while exploring, try going the back way. Walk the alleys and side streets; seek out the nooks and crannies. This is where the fringe often lives, and the fringe is a lot more interesting (if sometimes a little scary) than the homogenized morass of boutique stores and franchise eateries. It's also quite literally behind the facade. There are insights to be had, if you chose to look. The unbeaten path is where you find the hidden gems; gems make you richer.

2) Talk to people. You're gonna have to use your head on this one. Not everyone can or should be spoken to. That smelly dude with needle tracks who is currently barking at traffic is probably not your best bet. But even clean-cut, good-looking people can be off their nut. They hide it better, but they're certifiable. Watch out for those ones. Especially if you're a dude and there is a pretty girl involved. If you are yourself a pretty girl - well, you've gotta watch yourself for entirely different but no less important reasons.

I think the common denominator of "who to talk to" is how connected they are. How in synch they are, how aware of their environment at that particular moment. If they're distracted or busy, no bueno. But if they're alert and looking around, if they are smiling or generally cheerful looking, chances are they'll be amenable to conversation.

But don't go around with blinders. Remember the fringe. One of the coolest people I met yesterday pretty much lives on the street. But it's by choice; he felt alienated by society so he decided to have minimal part in it.

Talk to people who are trying to solicit money for causes. You don't have to give 'em any. But learn about their cause, about their reasons for endorsing it. Find out what it's about. You'd be surprised what you can learn. It's not always all rainbows and puppies, but you can pull out of that conversation anytime you want.

You don't have to agree with these people, on anything; that's not even the point. The point is to get out of your comfort zone and to meet people. You're not even out there to make lifelong friends (although if you do, great; I've made some friends that way); this is an exercise in immersion. Its purpose is to dispel loneliness, remember.

Bonus Fun Fact: People with pets (usually dogs) are almost always totally willing to discuss their pet in detail. And let you pet the dog, which means you can also get some doggie-love. (No, not bestiality, you sick, sick reader.) Doggie-love makes everything a little brighter.

3) Sit and observe (people watch): I find this most useful (and fun) when I can tweet my observations. I tend to be fairly snarky about this, but it's also useful in training yourself to spot details. This is handy as an artist, but actually it's good in general. For instance, commenting on something you noticed about a person makes a great conversational springboard.

* Since it's generally frowned upon to compliment a strange girl on her breasts (eyes up there, boys), you're going to have to be a bit more observant. And circumspect. Question: How are tattoos like dogs? Answer: People with tats are almost always willing to talk about them. In detail.

Anyway, I digressed back to point 2. Here's an example of point 3 - my tweets from yesterday:

Yes. I have secured a tall, frosty beverage and an eminently suitable observation point. I shall now observe them in their natural habitat.

Naturally, by "them" I am referring to Pasadena passersby. #letthesnarkycommentarybegin

See the A&F-wearing douchebag, unable to muster such common courtesies as asking to sit at my table.

Does that girl know her shirt turns translucent in direct sunlight? #Idontthinkshedoes #iamSOnotcomplaining

Apropos of nothing, "Snark Fodder" is the name of my next band.

Those baby sling things kinda freak me out. They just don't seem SAFE. #idbeagooddaddy

Dude. You didn't need the gallons of ink, piercings, or earpucks to make people look at you. You're so BFU they'd do it anyway. #justsayin

Yes, "BFU" means butt-fuck ugly. #potcallingkettle #iknow

Ok - what the hell SEX are you, skinny hipster creature? Seriously, you've passed by 4 times and I still can't tell.

Oh man, do those guys realize they're MUCH too old to be fashionable? Even dbag "fashion"? Because ew.

I have outlasted the douchebag. Also the sextegenarian human beatbox wannabe. #iwin

Wow. The only way that dude could flame brighter would be rainbow rainment. #straighteyeforthequeerguy

Okay, that was enough "cleverness" outta me. Excuse me, I'm due for some of that bitchslappery, hang on a minute.

4) It's not just about people, you know: If my point 1a didn't make this clear, who's there is only part of the story. What's there is at least another half of it, and finding out why can be quite edifying. This is another aspect of getting out of your own head that I think people overlook.

There's no reason you're required to keep yourself company all the time (see, even I don't wanna hang out with me, lol). Hence the exploration, the roads untravelled. Go on a nature walk, go to an art show, or a museum, or a revival theatre. Don't just sit in a coffee shop near home and read or write (although that's okay in a pinch).

Any time you come across a restaurant or cafe, walk in and look around. Ask to see a menu. Doesn't matter if you're hungry or can even afford it. Just check it out, see what they've got. Check out the decor, the layout. Are the staff friendly and happy to work there? Are they haughty assholes? You can learn a lot about people by observing wait staff. If they're not busy, talk to them. Learn about the place, the food, whatever. If you are hungry, eat! You may uncover a great place to bring a friend later. Once you've, you know. Made some.

Or go into random stores and check out what they sell. Talk to the people who work there. This works best when it's not one of those franchise boutique places. I'm talking about the little shops with character; secondhand bookstores; ethnic places.

* That reminds me: If your city has a "Chinatown" or something like that - a whole "ethnic" area, some culture other than your own -- consider checking it out. If that area is considered "ghetto" or "dangerous", well first of all that's lame, and second of all, forget it. Better lonely than in trouble.

5) In the long run, none of this really replaces actually having friends and a group and all that good stuff. Obviously that's the true and complete cure for loneliness. And it's true that all of this stuff would be more fun with someone than on your own; but come on. In what world is nothing better than something? Not counting VD, smartass.

* * *

I think I've gone on long enough to be tiresome. But seriously - even if you're not particularly alone or lonely, even if you're the most socially connected person in the world: I recommend you do this every now and then. You don't even have to be alone when you do it. But regardless, you won't feel alone when you're done.

Mostly you'll feel tired from all that walking. *grin*

A weird feeling

I just realized something tonight, and I have to admit it's sort of weirding me out.

See, if you know me at all, you know there's one thing that's pretty much a constant in my life: I'm almost always hung up over some girl.

And right now -- for the first time in a long time -- I really, truly don't have anyone on my radar. Not even looking at the damned thing, actually.

I mean shit, it's not unusual for me to be single -- ha! Being single, it would appear, is my default state! But there's generally someone I have an eye on, you know? Even if I'm being all unrequited or whatever.

Or I'm emotionally at war, my optimistic nature doing battle with the loneliness and angst that is the hallmark of singularity. My public face, I don't usually let that battle show -- and in truth, it's not that hard, being as I am kinda used to the state. But when I'm like that, I tend to be somewhat sour about other peoples' relationships, avoid reminders, that sort of thing. Or I'll throw myself into situations where I can at least maybe get laid.

But in the past few weeks, that whole aspect of my life has just gone away. In its place is a calm, almost zen feeling, this absence of worry, this lack of attention.

Not to say I don't still have an eye for the ladies -- shit, that'll never change -- but more than at any time in memory, it's an appreciation unmarred by want.

The only thing I can equate it to is that thing some people get, that almost smug assertion that "God has a plan for me". I've never liked that, because that kind of passivity frankly drives me bugshit. What about your plans, smug one?

Well. Now I think maybe I sort of understand. No, I don't think "God" has a plan for me, not in the sense of "God" that most would recognize. But without getting into the whole thing, let's just say I know I have a plan for me. And maybe I'm not fully aware of how it'll all play out, lacking as I do any conscious form of omniscience -- but I do know that the game is to have the best life possible.

I'm not the most aggressive person you'll ever meet. I'm not the guy forever hatching Machiavellian schemes to get through life.

But I do play to win.

One A.M.

Awoke from thin and almost febrile dreams involving the smell of stale sweat and re-tweets of people who aren't even on Twitter.

Relieved myself by the dusky light of my toothbrush charger; went downstairs for water. The cold tiles left my feet feeling hot and prickly. In these wee hours I worry as one is wont to do; my leg has been mysteriously hurty lately and now this nerve confusion. In the darkness spectres loom, their names polysyllabic, faux-Latinate. Adult boogeymen, medical terms for poorly understood diseases one hears about on TV doctor dramas.

Got me wondering about cancer, I mean what is it really, what is the *deal* with all these little rogue cells? What are they doing and why is it so bad? And I have to wonder if the disease is actually evolution at work, our bodies attempting to adapt to this toxic world of ours, or even for trials aborning. These cells attempts to proof ourselves from that which is bad for the existing ones. Then cancer is our genetic lines' attempts to become supermen.

And I think well, it's probably not supposed to work that way; structural changes like that happen much earlier in the body's timeline: I.e. In the womb. But how does that make sense I wonder, when the great bulk of toxins will not be encountered until later? When new ones appear on a daily basis? Why wouldn't bodies be in a hurry to defend themselves in their own generation? Cells have no concept of time, why would they be patient?

Also if it is evolution, it's much too early to see real results; assuming it's a response to our industrial world, we've only HAD what, three or four generations, at most? And our genetic entities scramble to keep up with our burgeoning technology, and it kills us in the attempt. So far. But I rather suspect that for every batch of fails, there are some successes. And those are our future.

The failures we cut out because we value a single life more than the Great Genetic Experiment, more than the eventual racial survival. Not saying lives don't matter but on that broader scale maybe the insistence to preserve instead hinders; maybe our determination to solve what we in our short-term think are problems are the actual doom of our race, cutting across (as it does) the natural processes of adaptation, overcoming, survival of fittest.

No wonder I can't sleep, but at least I'm not worried about my leg anymore.

And now it's 2 a.m.

***

Fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, my thoughts tumbling into free verse. Like:

The hug he gave
His former lover
Was short but fierce.
Then he cupped her face
Twixt both hands
And kissed her forehead
Like a benediction
Then the nuclear fires consumed them.

And:

He wrote on the wall:
"We are the six billion shattered shards of God."
And wondered if he were going mad.
Not for what he wrote
But for writing it on the wall.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Some Random Shit

When I was little, like around 3 or 4, people would frequently tell my mother (in my presence) that I would be a real heartbreaker someday.

I hated it when people said that. I didn't want to break anyone's heart. That would be MEAN. My wee self resented the implication that I would ever do such a thing.

So when I grew up, I grew to be the guy who doesn't break hearts, but also doesn't get to have relationships.

It's funny how shit works out.

* * *

Notes taken about a mall last week:

I wondered a bit if the high-end places like the Grove or the Americana [upscale, open-air malls] hurt the old indoor malls like the Galleria. Answer: no. It's just got older, become oddly duller. The clientele is at first glance poorer or at least lower-class and fringey. It's not that these people wouldn't be seen at the Grove or what have you; it's just they're more at home here.

Maybe my perspective has been skewed by my travels amongst the big livers (and/or wannabes), or maybe I'm just older and more jaded.

The old-school malls still have stores you don't see anywhere else, stores that can only survive in the rarified ecosystem of enclosed economics. Here franchise outlets like Mrs Fields and Sbarros, Sanrio Surprise and Swatch (Swatch! Seriously?!? There are that many people that nostalgic or ironic about the 80's?) survive if not thrive.

Amongst this seething bustle of melting-pot humanity, each willing to be parted with their money, it's hard to believe there's a recession on.

It's also hard to believe SHE's with HIM, I'm no worse a catch.

People don't change as much as we like to think. At least not in my lifespan. The trappings change but underneath we're the same now as we were in 1985. This mall could be swapped for the one I remember from my youth, in Canada, and you'd be hard-pressed to see the difference.

Also I can't find the arcade. I think maybe the Galleria doesn't have one.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

* * *

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really as smart as I think I am. Given that I've been living in the outside world for five years and haven't parlayed my various talents into fame and fortune (or even an acceptably independent lifestyle), I don't think such doubts are entirely unreasonable.

Then I see a movie like Shutter Island, billed as a twisty-turny suspenseful thriller -- that I figured out the ending to, around about the halfway mark. I mean really; I missed a few details, but otherwise was pretty dead-on. Consequently I spent the whole second hour of the movie in a state of boredom.

Also, just a note on this film in particular: The camerawork and/or film editing annoyed the living SHIT out of me. I get they were trying to be arty or whatever, and in some cases I could totally tell what they were trying to do specifically for that scene. But it didn't work. It was actively distracting; the way camera angles changed (often unnaturally and unnecessarily) threw me out of the movie to such a degree I actually considered walking out.

Anyway... the friend I went with, who I consider a fairly bright person, was totally into the film, totally didn't see any of it coming, and was pretty much blown away by it. Which, you know, I'm happy for her.

But it sort of answers my question. At the very least, if I'm not smarter, my mind at least works the right way for movies and shit.

Incidentally the whole business of wondering about your own intelligence? It's documented fact that people who really are smart and capable tend to underestimate their abilities, while people who are just dumb as bricks think they're the living shit.

I find this information slightly disturbing. So does that mean I'm dumb for thinking I'm smart? You can see how easy it could be, to get into a vicious circle on that one. I choose not to dwell on it. I could be doing better things. Like figuring out ways to parlay my various skills and talents into fame and fortune, goddamn it!

The Big Fat Deal

So unless you've been living under a rock, or just stay away from online news services, you've heard about the Southwest Airlines/Kevin Smith flap.

In a nutshell, he was asked to get off a full plane because he was considered (by the people on the ground dealing with him) that he was too fat for a single seat (which was all that was available) and so was a safety hazard.

Well, there's a lot been said about it and much of it by those involved, so I'm not going to hash any of that over again. Instead I'm going to talk about being fat.

It's something I know a little about, in that I've been on the "over" side of the weight debate for a large proportion of my life. Not by a HUGE amount (I was never morbidly obese), but enough that I surely wasn't the sexiest stud around. Enough that I'm somewhat familiar with the pains and humiliations of rotundity.

At the same time though, I do avoid the worst of it, the black (or awestruck) stares, the derogatory remarks, the general social ostracism from a culture that worships health and youth.

So being as I am pretty much in the middle, once again I'm in a position to moderate. Yay.

It seems like people treat being fat as something new. True, it's entirely possible that the Ballooning of America is reaching new heights, but historically speaking, girth is associated with wealth, and America pretty much defines "first-world country". In other words, despite the mammoth deficits and debts the country is in, it's still a rich country. And its citizenry do reflect that.

Now I guess some people are going to blame eating disorders and mental issues and all kinds of other stuff. Personally I consider these to be excuses. They're not the disease, they're symptoms.

I see this as a battle between economics and aesthetics. Also personal space, but that only applies to airplanes and buses.

But see, economically, it behooves the entire country to eat a lot. Because larger portions mean higher prices. Proper nutrition education is lacking, but so too are accessible and affordable healthy alternatives (which a dark corner of my mind wonders if these aren't deliberately so). Mostly though, people are in a hurry or are bored, and so they don't pay attention to what they eat. So maybe they didn't notice the portions growing bigger.

Bigger burgers and fries mean the ranchers and farmers can sell bigger herds and crops (going all the way to the far end of this particular chain). It's all a matter of keeping the highs high in terms of revenue streams. You don't want it to decrease or stay level; it needs to go up.

On the flip side of this is the popular artistic culture which promotes the hell out of beautiful, lithe young men and women who apparently lead lives of charm and grace (except when they don't), staying on the bleeding edge of fashion, gadgets, cars and sex partners. They show us the world we want, that we would give our collective and/or metaphorical left nuts to have.

Except of course, we're fat. We're also in debt. And aging, sometimes poorly. And we don't all have faces like those we see on screens all around us, and we don't all have personalities that inspire the interest and adulation of millions. (True, it's doubtful those pretty young things all do either. Just saying.) And most importantly, we don't have a team of writers to ensure that no matter what happens, we'll all be okay in the end, just before the credits roll.

But hey, we can forget about that for a bit with the help of a beer or six, or some chocolate ice cream. It's easier to do this, the perceived gain so much more immediate, than taking the real-world path to that heavenly life.

Because in the real world, true success doesn't come easy. The deck IS stacked against us, we the people, the washed or unwashed rabble. In the quest of the almighty dollar (and I'm being charitable as to objectives), economic structures were put in place decades ago that make debt and destitution inevitable to the unwary.

By the time we're old enough and hopefully wise enough to see it, we're already in the hole. And we're now too weak and tired to haul ourselves out.

I paint a grim picture, I know. But see, it's not that it HAS to be that way, merely that unless you're willing to work at it, from the cradle, yes, to the grave - it's the likeliest scenario. It's not enough to have talent, not enough to be a special snowflake.

But I digress.

Back to the whole business of being fat, and being discriminated against thereby. Well, I gotta say it: Fat people ain't pretty. And it's the nature of the human beast, that oddly enough, we don't want to be near things that aren't pretty.

Now, I'm not taking SIDES on this, or saying it's just or fair. But it's how it is. I mean shit, look at me. I know I'm an FLK. Were I fit, I'd probably be all right, but I'm not. So yes, it probably IS too much to ask that I have the prettiest girls, the ones who attract by the very rawness of their physical appeal. Because on bodies alone, my lack of physical aestheticism repels stronger than they attract me.

Now of course we all know that what really matters ain't looks. That's really not the point here. Because it's a lot harder to get the hotness inside if you can't bring yourself to get close enough to see.

Naturally, people who are themselves tubby, provided they have a realistic self-image, aren't gonna care so much. But to people who did take it upon themselves to work at being fit, who strove after those ideals and put in the effort - the tubbies harsh the buzz. It's like they're letting the team down, man. Here's me, they say, working hard in the gym, trying to stay young and hot so I'm at least not uglier than my environment, and I take that to the job too so I can afford the nice clothes and the baubles for my crack-model wannabe girlfriend, and so I can afford to get my teeth lasered and that, sir, is how I keep the economy going and isn't that so much better than being a fat slob and sweating on me?

Thing I've noticed though? With exception of those blessed with perfect metabolisms, the fit ones don't seem to think that great. Because all that running around and counting reps doesn't often leave much room for the higher order thinking that makes society worth living in.

Oh, nor do the bulbous ruminants, to be sure. Because they're hungry and usually thinking about dinner, or how horrible that man was to me when I was just walking past and the tremors I caused dumped his coffee in his lap.

And now you all know why I'm actually generally okay with being in the middle. See how I turned it around on myself? I'm a total attention whore sometimes.

No but seriously: No one's perfect. Not perfectly good nor perfectly bad, either. And no "way" is perfect for everyone, or in every facet. And every conflict I see, every Big Fat Deal someone makes, it seems to me that they always come out of forgetting the important detail that one day the problem will be you. So you'd at least better make sure today isn't that day.

A Window to My Character

My heroes growing up were, in no particular order:

Sherlock Holmes

Robin Hood

Superman

James Bond

Leonardo Da Vinci

I recently realized that this actually offers a bit of insight to my character, personality and beingness. Because consciously or not, I've tried to be an amalgamation of these men. So now, because I know how fascinating I am, I'll break it down. 

Sherlock Holmes: Hyper-observant, above-average intelligence; thinks before he acts, superior deductive skills. But also can be arrogant about his achievements and intellect. Haunted; prone to crutches, but not excuses.  

Robin Hood: Willing to think outside the box to find solutions to problems. Also willing to face those problems, if not always head-on. Dedicated to helping others. Broad streak of romanticism. Issues with discrimination, abuse of power/authority.

Superman: Strong moral character and uncompromising code of ethics; recognizes that being more able carries with it the responsibility to channel that ability toward the common good. Generally quite selfless. Unassuming and quiet in his alter-ego. Would prefer to have others shine with him than be the brightest star, yet is perennially alone, apart -- alien.

James Bond: Suave, sharp, a ladies' man. Calm in the face of opposition or danger. Will stop at nothing to protect and serve. 

Leonardo Da Vinci: Artist extrordinare. Also: Left-handed. 

Now, I'm totally not saying I'm anywhere near the badass any of these men are/were. And I am most assuredly a much more cynical man these days. But the fact remains, I like to think I've done a pretty good job of it (even though I unfortunately seem to have retained the negative aspects of those personalities). 

But yeah, anyway: Not trying to beat my own drum all over the place; it was just something I noticed and found interesting about myself. 

The Weight

I have had a rough day. 

Here's a thought: I think men, as a rule, process emotional pain differently than girls do. See, girls, I think they "get" that shit better than men do (don't ask me why). Men know about it, sure, but it just does not compute. If you hurt, there should be some physical damage! Otherwise, where the hell does that pain come from? If nothing's physically wrong, it shouldn't stop you. 

Maybe you should break something, then. Punch a wall or something, make your knuckles bleed. Then there's real, obvious pain. You can DO something about that. 

I've have to ruthlessly suppress all such urges all. Day. Long. Not just suppress, but hide; bury. Deep.

It's sort of a joke amongst some of my friends, that I give my heart too easily, too quickly (although that's, ha ha, that's not how we describe it).  

It's true I'm inclined to like people; that I'm oft willing to extend the hand of friendship as a default. 

When it comes to love, though? Truth is, no. I mean yeah, I don't waste any fucking time with it when I meet someone I think would work. But I am very, very choosy about who I dare take chances with. 

Apparently no less retarded, but yes. Choosy. 

I almost let myself fall in love again late last year. That's what I tell myself, that it was "almost", because "almost" is easier to come back from, right? If you haven't fallen, you can catch yourself before you do, right? 

Well I dunno. Maybe that's true, and maybe it isn't. Maybe I'd gotten away from myself when I wasn't looking.

All I really know is, it really hurt to find out that the girl who dumped me just a few months ago, got married last weekend. It wasn't just some schmoe, it's a dude she'd history with, who'd buggered off because -- never mind. None of my business, none of yours. Doesn't matter.

She's moving to Texas (entirely disrelated to the marriage thing). Today was the official sendoff. And although we didn't work out as a relationship, we've still kinda got something, and it behooved me to see her off. That's just how I do.

We started off with breakfast at Denny's. I noticed the ring on her left hand right after we'd ordered, and suddenly all appetite was gone. All the pieces that had been hovering in my mind slammed into place hard enough to set my ear ringing (literally). The mysterious Vegas trip. The photo of "the rose". The Facebook update about picking up so-and-so from the airport. The truth I'd been hiding from myself (as I do, oh yes; some truths are better snuck up on, if you can) was revealed, inescapable. 

I wish I hadn't seen that ring. But it couldn't be unseen. Although I made no outward sign of anything wrong, I could only choke down a few bites of my meal. The whole day pretty much went like that; I'd be fine for a bit and then I'd see that fucking ring...

It shouldn't have hurt. 

I had no claim on her, and no particular hope of getting back with her. And of course this was always going to happen at some point - this girl's ovaries were in full rumble. (Not to say she was a slut; it is to say she wanted kids. A lot.) 

Shouldn't have hurt. 

I can't be selfish in this, I wish them happiness and a wonderful life together. It's the least I can do. 

When we got a moment alone (many hours later), I brought it up. Confirmed my deductions were right (they all were). I congratulated her. So very carefully, so calmly. I think, I hope, I hid that my guts were knotted and rebellious. Maybe she picked up on a little of it, don't know. But she does care about me, I know that. It isn't some "guilt" thing that she likes having me around and counts me as a close friend. 

Somehow this makes it worse.

I'm not one for showing my pains to the world. Even this blog is far, far too revealing, too vulnerable and open - but it's gotta go somewhere and at least this way I don't have to face unloading on someone directly and making them deal with me when they likely have better things to do. 

I have nothing to break.