a.

I must be secretly arrogant.

You can tell a person it's all right to read their most personal publishings, but that doesn't necessarily make it so. I should not have done that. It wasn't so much reading as scanning piecemeal, but I.... There are some things that are simply too personal. It makes me angry to have done it, especially since I would never have had the courage or openness to share such a thing of mine with him.1 It wasn't meant for me. I wish I hadn't, for that exact reason. Yet here I am, with my nose inches from my MacBook-- because I, in my natural state, am pretty nearly blind-- feeling uselessly lonely and completely stupid and overly fond of adverbs.

And writing. On the Internet. For what reason... I can't define.

The fan that I constantly have going in this bedroom that gets the best and the hottest sunlight a basement ever got is blowing tiny fibres of hair into my face. In my dreams, they are apricot colored and I am never alone.

Fuck.

I want to call d. (see below) and wish at him that he were here, in this less-than-dank pit of mine, just because there could be something in his answer that lets me know he wants it too.

I knew it would happen, that it would flow into me and meld and mix with other pains, compare itself to them, and stew. Raw and overdone and not enough and too much and not mine at all.