A *moment* of weakness averted...

There are not words to describe my mood lately. My heart oscillates between fullness: with memories, with friends, with the legacy I desire to create, with her; and fearful emptiness as I tremor at the possible paths my life could take at this juncture. What would have happened had I been healthy; who will I be when I become so? Isn't it likely that I'll be lonely forever, since I'm unwilling to settle for less than amazing? Are my principles worth eternal/nearly impenetrable solitude? Who could possibly even care that I have more inside me than the goofball almost all of them see? The facts of life are far less terrifying than the questions unanswerable by simple facts.

Aw, listen to me being all emo. (So cute!)Far be it from me to censor myself in my own expression space, but all this worry doesn't suit my devil-may-care attitude. She'd laugh at me if she saw me like this. Hell, I'm almost laughing myself. I know what I need: hot noodle soup and a hug, not all this addictive self-pitying shit. Maybe a coffee. The world will be better when it's back on track, playing itself into the palm of my hands. Because megalomania is always healthier than depression. *smile*

Harrumph

So, I have a Blog, now, eh? I suppose this is as good a time as any to start expressing myself again. I usually seem to wait for landmarks, things like new years and birthdays and other arbitrarily human milestones. Perhaps I'm addicted to new beginnings just a tad too much, to starting something without obvious ties to the past. But no matter how many times I re-invent myself and my relationship with the world, there's no keeping my history out of my memories or behavior patterns, or erasing others' perceptions of me to date. I guess I just want a video game reset button for my life, to be able to do it all again and be taken seriously this time around. Is that too much to ask for in a metaphysics? Also, Universe, while you're up, I'd like a set of good looks, world peace, and a pony, just to make all the eight year old girls who ask Santa for things jealous. Come on, don't tell me that Santa thing doesn't bug you, too.

So here I am again, with another all-too-cleverly named, self-congratulatory public bitching forum, probably on some level deluding myself into believing that this time will be different, that now, this page with its big orange-and-white B is somehow going to save me years and thousands of dollars in therapy over the big white goat over at Livejournal. How would that be for an ad campaign? "Come over to Blogspot, where our emo rants are a guaranteed 29% more therapeutic than our leading competitor." Ugh, the "real world" awaits.