Huh

Secret to making a blog you can actually write something personal on:

Be a bad blogger and then NOBODY WILL EVER READ IT.

It's two thirty in the am. The last time I checked my only friends were the chocolate fudge cream explosion in the freezer and the electric heating pad tucked in my blanket.

I'm wearing your shirt. But I think somebodies special mom did their laundry before they left because your shirt doesn't smell bad. I mean musky. You don't smell bad. You smell like the way my face fits into the neck-shaped space between your jaw and your collar bone. You smell like the way your hands feel on almost every part of my body.

I'm worried. About a lot. I'm worried I'm not strong enough to be alone. I'm worried your ability to leave me for so long and start up a mini-new life is because I don't mean half as much to you as you pretend to. I'm worried in the time you spend away I will build up walls around the parts of me you manage to find the little keys to. They're laughable, really. But I'm sort of determined.

I'm worried about what comes later, and that I won't be able to enjoy the present thinking about the later. Every so often a small part of the way you smell wafts from the shirt and makes me really happy. I'm worried parts of me that you bring out can't work the same magic without you around.

Ultimatley I don't know what to do, what you mean to me or how this is going to work out. You make me sad and frustrated.

This is my 33rd post to this blog, and though I don't really give a fuck about it here is an adequate present: