I always think I want to be in love until I am.
I suffer from the same stigma Groucho Marx suffered from not wanting to be a member of a club that would have me as a member.
At this point in my so far forty six years of living I have a pretty good idea what’s wrong with me.
I’m just having such a difficult time understanding why it’s so hard for me to point out my good qualities.
I’m not a serial killer. In fact the idea of taking someone’s life holds no interest for me whatsoever which I suspect is quite a good thing.
My personal hygiene has never been up to snuff and it’s definitely something I need to look into and figure out why I don’t want to be clean.
I wonder if it’s because I don’t feel I deserve to be clean. Like I’m punishing myself or am I just too lazy to get into the shower and wash away the dirt.
I’m not much of a cereal eater. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m lactose intolerant or if I’m just too lazy to lift up the spoon and put it into my mouth.
I wanted to go the distance with you until I saw how far away that actually was and decided instead to stay in watching the idiot box and eating more stupid food.
I suffer from a low self-esteem that suffers from delusions of grandeur and if you’re not careful you’ll catch my disease and before you know it will be writing yourself fan letters and signing them in your own fecal matter.
At this point in my so far forty six years of living I have a pretty good idea that my fifteen minutes of fame have come and gone and that it happened when I was in the crapper wishing I were someplace else.
This valentine ultimatum to myself will get shoved in a drawer like all the rest of my writing and perhaps it will one day be discovered or perhaps not. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles and another complete unknown gathers no moss.
Post a Comment