Here it is.

I’m starting to understand things. But it’s only little by little. Everyone remembers their childhood, when we learned what to do and what not to do. I was a blonde kid with a bowl cut. And I talked funny. Kids in my classes made fun of my name and all I really liked to do was build things with blocks. I was weird. I still am weird. I find that at times I’m extremely lonesome. But when I get out and do the things that there are to do around here—I find that I like being alone. So I’ll go home or go drink coffee somewhere. I’ll listen to the radio and smoke cigarettes. I know all of this is unhealthy too. Not too mention kind of creepy. But that’s me. And that’s who I am. I had a good chat today with a friend. It was mostly me talking, just because I cut people off in conversation, thinking that my points are always more meaningful.

The conclusion was that everyone should just fuck off. I made metaphors with a cigarette and all I can really think of now is that I don’t know what to do about anything. I like the company of people. But in a way, I don’t. I just like certain people at certain times. Not a lot of people together, being crazy—but one person I can talk to about something meaningful for the both of us. Well, anyway it just seems that there is another stage in which I’m trying to figure out what to do: what’s right and what’s wrong. But the answers or outcomes aren’t necessarily perfect. It isn’t like math where there is always some kind of answer. It isn’t even like writing in which I can finally give up—saying: “Yeah, that’s what I feel—so it’s gotta be right.” It’s not like that at all. It isn’t black or white and it kills me. I wish this were all so easy. But tonight, I’m finding out for some reason what I am. My name doesn’t define me. My poor habits of smoking, drinking a lot of coffee, or even leading girls on I have no desire for; all of that shit doesn’t define me. I don’t know what defines me.

I got out of the shower tonight and saw my naked-self in the mirror. I looked at my chest and at my arms. I looked at my face and eyes. Then I finally looked at my penis and I came to this conclusion: “You’re the man. And anyone that doesn’t like you is missing out. The world is missing out not on your dick or muscles. Because that doesn’t define you man. You’re the fucking shit for one reason and one reason only: you’re who you are.” This may sound strange. And I would agree too I guess. But I don’t really care what people think of me, if I’m in love, or if any future action I take in the world is to become anything. I’m going to live my life. So fuck you all. For all of you that have ever hurt me with venomous words, or for my current situation, a lack of words: fuck it. I’m done with feeling this way. I don’t care if you think you know who I am, or what I am. You aren’t right. You aren’t close to being right. And do you want to know why you’re wrong? You’re wrong because I don’t even know what I am. And I know myself the best. I know what I want.

And this depression that is conceived every fucking morning I wake up: I’m done with it. It’s something I don’t want anymore. So I’m forgetting the things that upset me. Of course all the situations I’ve experienced make me who I am. But why keep hurting? There’s a lot of injustice and hate in this world already. Why should I be pissed off about things of no importance, of no desire, and that simply make me sad. Fuck you all. And to those that think they love me or know that they don’t love me; I love you either way. But you can fuck off too. Because the people that care for me the most, I know. And there’s only a few that have my back. So go to the deli, grab a ticket and wait in line: because I’m who I am, and if you want more it will take a lot of time to earn my trust, and gain my love. Otherwise, I’m done with this shit.