[I don't imagine anyone will actually read this ... I'm just going off right now. Maybe I'll land on a point.] I don't understand. I just keep closing down. I don't talk to anyone, not about anything deep and personal. I don't even write anymore. Used to keep journals -- mostly incoherent, self-indulgent, stuff I half-hoped somebody would find after I'd died so they could try to put the pieces together. I have so much going for me. But I can't seem able to get my shit together. Inside. I'm trying to get past the defeatism, the anger, the resentment. The smallness. I never wanted a personality before -- I didn't want to have anything to lose. I don't know if I was just fooling myself before: but I know I want more now. It's all still foggy. But I begin to perceive shape in the gloom. It all centers on Nathan. I've been obsessively fixated on him for five years. I just saw these pics of him on his MySpace page, he in his underwear. He looked proud, sexy, complex, fun. But where once I would have swooned or something, or told myself, "oh I just think it's cute I'm not obsessing", I recognize the fact I'm even thinking about it all ... Look, he's hot. I know this is frustration. But you know what's not happening? I'm not thinking about wanting him. You know? He's just this person who sometimes amazes me, but I wasn't attached to him in the photos like I would have expected. I wasn't even thrilled or anything, right? But they proved a trigger. But then I seem to me at a low point right now, somehow. A few days ago, we were watching Damages, third season, and a character commits suicide by xxx. According to the physician character who helped him do it, xxxx I was at the PC at the time ... Instantly, I was looking up how to lay my hands on xxx, and investigating the truth of his claims. This is not a pining problem. I'm obsessed, but I'm not wishing I was with him, or even wishing I was fucking him -- though no man who meets him and respects his own penis doesn't want to fuck him. This is just a self-esteem problem, a problem of confidence, imagination. A lack of definition, and also a lack of balls, and an obsessive love of self-flagellation rather more powerful yet than my lust for the boy. As you can probably tell, I've been tail-spinning, and pressure has been building up inside. I don't know if this is any actual good, but I don't feel like I'm about to explode this very minute. I'm not thinking about jumping from a bridge. (I live near one, and the undertow here is ferocious) Glad this place is here.