1:02 p. m. » Semi-Erótico

I've been nervous. I've been truly, and drenched in paranoia, nervous. First noticed upon the arrival of my two visitors from the United States, later solidified after the forewarnings received in the eclectics' bar where Americans, namely straight Americans, aren't welcome. I recognize the origin of this once familiar but now unsettling-memory evoking sweat (almost embarrassingly insuppressible) as the same as that by which I was ('was' as to better be portrayed as the victim that I was) self-inflicted during a time described in several of the earliest posts below. I'm making efforts to refrain from being, but more importantly from seeming, reproachful (as I know that these two are obligated to nothing), because it's me, now programmed, who is the obvious guilty party. Guiris. Inglés. I don't know why I care. You know I'm never really being serious -- but the fact that I'm (only half-)unknowingly never really kidding totally puts the joke back on me. Moving on, I've comfortably settled upon the explanation of this almost unnoticeable awkward vibe (earlier hastily assumed as a simple friend crush) between a certain male teacher and myself (and in an almost epiphanic manner) as being none other than our old beloved friend 'sexual tension' -- of course -- not enough traces of attraction even exist for me to be able to collect an amount sufficient for the notion of simply wanting to want to hold his hand to enter my head -- as a friend so wisely said: Christ knows we all need to have limits. Jesus. I'm living with an emotional infrastructure polarized. A paradox. It doesn't make any sense. Nothing makes any sense. My strength is shot, oppressed by the definition of inconsideration, was cornered into living months with eggshell floors by someone's inadvertently unleashing the correct combination of threats along with providing a living condition just specific enough to ensue sufficient fear. Getting kicked out onto the street? Most of it still can't be discussed. Too sacred or precious -- even for the internets. It was so perfect, so fragile, so ridiculously painful, such painful bliss. Me, whittled down to nothing more than a creature, naked, humiliated, helpless, and above all, pathetically and shamelessly melodramatic, yet more content and comfortable than ever. I'm sicker than I'll ever know, self-tortured, self-righteous, such insatiable hypochondria. Thank the Lord for what I've been given -- I couldn't imagine being any happier. More confessions. The front half of my tongue has been orange for over two weeks; I have no idea why. More confessions. I might as well even admit I've listened to Antics almost 70 73 times since its release. More confessions. It must be Wednesday's absinthe. Someone make me stop. Thank God you all only have fifteen more days for which to put up with this.