Current theme song: Desperado (as covered by Johnny Cash)

I scour M’s blog for something I read last night to quote for context.

I’m glad you’re alive. I love you and I want you to keep your head above water, but I don’t miss you any more. Not like I used to.

I had a physical today. It’s been about four years. I felt accomplished, like this was some significant bucket-list quality feat. The doctor mostly told to me work on my hygiene. This came as no surprise, I led him down that road anyway. I know what my problems are, and I’m getting around to them. Doctors always tell me my neurology is fine, but that I really should go to a dentist again. There’s a bucket-list item. Anyway, my past physical trauma is, as they say, unimpressive. That’s good.

He was glad that I see a counselor regularly, although I felt like he expressed as much in concern for my stress level. Of course, I go to therapy because I’m twenty-eight and I feel like the quantity of people I date isn’t going to change the reality that I’ve only really liked a couple people in my life and it wasn’t reciprocal. Not that I’m trying to get anywhere in particular, but my biological imperative isn’t happy about waking up alone every morning.

I heart still skips a beat when I run across L on the internet. It’s my little secret, because there isn’t anything to do about it.

I was thinking over some chili at SP tonight about how writing a special girl, or even a girl I’d like to be special, is a unique release for me. It’s the closet I come to not being alone, when I am, in fact, physically alone. Writing L is usually sending my thoughts into a void, and I wonder at times if it is because I never hear back from her, or because I slaughter my thoughts with censorship whenever I interact with her.