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 ^{(it's beta!)}

Apple juice and crayons. Describing my desk, those things are the first that I'd mention. With only that, you'd assume I'm a child. And you'd be right, sort of. I mean, I'm still a child inside, somewhere. Different parts grow at different speeds.

My speakers whisper to me. I don't turn up the volume because I don't want too. I love music, but I don't feel like pumping my loves into the common room of my floor. It pisses me off when others do it so... whatever. When I wander into the kitchen I bet that BET will be on. I think it's retarded, and painfully so, but oh well. I don't want to watch it so I won't. If Mamtute wants too, that's her business. I have no idea how to spell her name correctly, but I think that's pretty close. She's from Gambia, I believe. We are not close.

On my floor, I'm the only white person who lives here all week long. Jill is white, but she is here maybe two days each week. Grace is Korean. I don't know which one, but I'm sure she's told me at some point. I don't even know where Sam is from. I think Pakistan, and not because I'm ignorant and assume everyone brown is from Pakistan, it's just a thing I think he mentioned. Candice is here maybe three or four days a week. She and Jill are very good friends, I believe. She is Chinese. Occasionally I will make a comment and her and Grace will be united in their ire towards me. It makes me laugh.

I guess because I don't take race seriously, some people think that I don't take other races seriously. That is to say, they think I'm a racist, mayhap. I'm not. Well, I don't think I am, but who am I to judge. I think that race is a trivial thing, as important as the shirt you wear. That is, not very important at all. But some people put a lot of value on the clothes you wear, so take from the comment what you will.

"I know how you feel, brother." That sums up me weekend. I look back at that sentence and realize my mistake, but leave it. Pirates may be passé but they still make me laugh. Passé and cliché mean almost the same thing. I wonder if they have the same root word. But I digress -- this weekend was spent with my brother. Not my physical brother, but a fellow that I would occasionally call my brother of metal. Brendan Cone. I feel I should type his whole name but I forget his middle one. At first I think this should make me feel bad but it doesn't. Once again, digression -- my whole weekend was spent with him pretty much. Playing video games and pool, driving around and watching movies.

I needed it, though I'm not sure why. I should be over Amy, but I feel that I still think of her far too often.

My birthday was in September, which was more then two months ago. I knew it was over when she wouldn't touch me as she walked in the door and handed me only a poster. It took two weeks for her to decide that she didn't love me anymore. Or couldn't. I told her last time we talked it made me believe that she never really loved me. She was offended, and said that she did, but I didn't push it. No point. She's dead to me for intents and purposes, and there's no need to convince me that she actually did love me, because that would make her decision much more painful. Better that she never really loved me then she loved me but I wasn't good enough to hold her interest for the two weeks we were apart. I think that a good chunk of females I've put my trust into have failed me utterly.

Well, in their defense, they haven't failed me so much as they've failed to live up to the expectations I've had for them. It's possible that I just hold people to a higher standard then I should, but just typing that sentence out makes me want to reach through time and slap any one of these girls and try and talk some sense into them. This doesn't matter though. This is just part of the reason I can't sleep.

That's all these sentences have been, really. A declaration of my failures as a man and a promise that no matter how hard I try, I doubt I'll be able to ever really fix myself.

This is going to be me writing what I think and feel. This is going to be the story that I would tell if someone asked me to just explain who and what I am, and how I managed to get there. First things first, however. If you are reading this that I love you. I love you for bothering to get through my crappy writing to get to the point where I tell you that I love you for getting through the crappy writing. If you continue, then I love you for pushing on. If you quit then I love you for giving me a chance. If you throw this away and tell everyone you meet that because of this you decided I am a giant loser, I love you for not thinking I was one before.

I love you, no matter what.

I just have problems loving myself.

Let's go for an adventure.

For most of the life that I remember I have been fat. Not for most of my life, per say, but for a good chunk of grade school and the first half of high school. I read a lot and I think this is part of why I was heavy. I didn’t run and play during recesses a lot of the time, I’d just find a nice place to sit and read. I played when I was younger then grade six or seven, I suppose, but when we moved to Barrie from the Sudbury area I really didn’t adjust well. I have always had troubles making new friends, because, well, I’m shy. This continues to this day, and this has been continually interpreted as me being mean.

I can be mean, but not so much lately. I’d rather people like me. I want friends, but that’s something that is hard for me to do. I want a woman, but I don’t know how to go about getting one. Every girlfriend I’ve ever had, (two), have come to me. I don’t know how to hit on a girl. Another problem is that I really want to be in love. I want to take good care of a girl and hold her and give her presents and make her things, but most ladies thing that’s odd. This bothers me slightly. Is the reason I’m so willing to love because I was essentially unloved by my peers for a good chunk of my childhood? I have no idea. I’ve never thought of that possibility until right now. I’m lonely now, and I know that for sure.

brown eyes, glazed with tears your eyes, my eyes alike in this one attribute brown and blue girl and boy one lacking love one overcome you breathe in sharply and I know tomorrow, your tears will be dry your face will be smiling and I’ll still be thinking of you the wounds you open are slow to heal and I hate you for getting over me again I hate myself for falling prey to your eyes Losing myself again in these orbs Again, again, again I hate your eyes Damn your eyes Every blink is a whispered lie But honesty, oh, honesty would be worse And you make me doubt myself You’ve cut my legs out from under me Again If you ever break my heart Again I’ll just sit and take it Again Because I’m not yet a man

She walks into his room. Not very far, as all the rooms in this building were too small to allow a great deal of pacing, and his room was particularly cluttered.

“What are you doing?”

He was painting. It was obvious that he was painting, and just as obvious that this wasn’t her trying to figure out what he could possibly be doing with a tray of watercolors and a canvas board. She wanted to talk.

“I’m painting. It’s not something I’m good at, or even something I really enjoy. It’s just something that I assumed would make sense for me to do. I think.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He let her words hang in the air. For a moment all either of them could hear was the fan.

“So, what’s going on?”

“Well, mark, I’m glad you asked. My friend Leah is coming to visit and I was wondering if you’d like to meet her. I really think you guys would get along.”

“Are you trying to set me up?”

“Well… no. I’m trying to set her up. She’s had a run of bad guys in her life and I kind of want you to be good to her. She has low self esteem and has done a lot of stupid –“

“I don’t think I feel comfortable being some sort of life coach. It seems…. Whatever. We can discuss it later.”

“But… okay. You’re right, whatever, we’ll talk later.”

“Want to get some lunch, maybe?”

He puts down the paintbrush and twists his chair around, and for the first time since she’s walked in, looks her in the eyes.

“I’m hungry and it’s been forever since I’ve had a shawarma.”

“Yeah… okay. Let’s go.”

He stands up out of his chair and picks up his sweater. The space between his desk chair and bed has become a makeshift closet. He hates it when he rolls back over his jackets and shirts, but not enough to change anything about it.

This makes him laugh, because that could be said about most things in his life. He hates, but not enough to change anything.