#11 I Want To Know Your Plans by Say Anything
“You’re what keeps me believing the world’s not gone dead, strength in my bones, put the words in my head. When they pour out to paper, it’s all for you. ‘Cause that’s what you do.”
Her and I will never be together. I think she’s okay with that and I’m finally okay with that. She’ll always love me. I believe that. It’s not the kind of love I wanted from her at first, but it’s the kind of love that keeps me going some times. I’ll always love her. I’ll always care about her. Despite all the negative things I’ve said, and I’ve said more than she deserves, and all the alluding to Her hurting me that I’ve written about, she’s probably done more good to my life than anyone except my mother. I might not be here writing this right now if it wasn’t for her. It was from my time with Her that I discovered who I really was, and wanted to be, and my love for creativity was finally realized. I knew I liked it, but I didn’t know it was who I had to be. She helped me discover that, whether she knows it or not she was a huge part of me finding myself, and beginning my journey to true happiness. If it wasn’t for her right now I’d probably be a successful Lawyer with millions of dollars, a house way bigger than I’d ever need, a six figure sports car that goes way faster than I dare drive, and have a hot wife with impractically big boobies….but I wouldn’t be happy. Not that I’m happy now (he says laughing) but I’m on my way to being happy. I’ll get there.
This deserves more explaining than I care to give. At first I figured it was because I’m lazy, but I’m starting to think it’s because as I grow older I grow less fondly of remembering the past. Even the good parts. Obviously this doesn’t bode well for my sanity. Obviously I’ll pretend not to care.
I keep forgetting that I can write this any way I want to. I took a break to pee, put in another load of laundry – because I’m running low on masturbation socks (if only that were a joke) – and get a glass of cranberry juice, which I didn’t end up doing. But during that I was talking to myself, not out loud of course, and saying that it’s my writing, I can do it any way I want to, so that’s what I’m going to do.
Sadly most of the things I create I don’t do for myself. I’m willing to admit that I do them with the intention of having other people see it and then praise me as if I were their God, or something slightly less narcissistic than that. However, I get joy from other people approving of me. Sad, but true. So it’s kind of doing it for myself However, once again, I don’t go out of my way to do something I don’t believe is myself, or that I hate doing, just to get attention. Sure I once ran around the block naked in a nice area while beating around my penis so some blood would flow into it so it wouldn’t appear so small to the few ladies at the shindig – it pretty much looked like I was killing two birds with one stone by jerking off during my midnight jog, but I say whatever gets a man to sleep at night is fine by me – but I didn’t want to do that, I had to do that because I lost a bet during a game of beer pong (and the point of this story is?) no point, I just want people to visualize me naked.
She was the first person I wanted to create for, or rather I felt that I needed to create for, that I needed her approval, that her approval meant something because it was coming from a place that was honest and therefore important and validating. For whatever reason she liked my writing, and it wasn’t because I was tall, dark, and handsome with six pack abs (because none of those things are true….short, pale and gruesome with two crooked abs that make the stomach look deformed).
I discovered her writing – I say it as if she was a bum in the park and I came across her cat pissed on notebook and found majestic poetry that’s now sold in Starbucks across America and half of Vietnam – and quickly fell in awe of her. She was so passionate, which as a new blog reader I had yet to see. I immediately wanted her approval, and it was only slightly because at that point she was the most adorable thing I had ever seen. That was just a benefit. She writes the way I wish I could. Her sentences compose not words, but beauty, soul, emotion. She presents wisdom and enlightenment through entertainment and humor. I make small penis jokes and bitch about being lonely, which is arguably the same as what she does, just way, way, way less intelligent, and oh yeah, not the same at all.
I still strive for her approval. I have no idea if she’s aware of it, or ever will be aware of it. I hope she knows I’m proud of her, and all that she’s trying to accomplish, and all that she’s going to accomplish, because she’s going to accomplish a lot. And with every accomplishment she makes it’s just going to motivate me more and more to try and impress her, create more, try to live up to the expectations she once had of me.
I don’t know, I guess what all of this was supposed to say, but I ironically failed at (is it ironic?) maybe? (Probably not) is that I never really believed in myself until her. I talk about wanting her approval. She gave me her approval. I forget it sometimes. She believed in me. I guess more than wanting her approval – although I so desperately still want her approval – I don’t want to disappoint her. I want to be something and have her think, “I always knew he could do it,” because I know she’s going to be something, every guy will want to be with her, and every girl will want to be her – and be with her because every girl is bisexual now – and her brilliance will be showcased all across the world and I’ll be thinking, “I always knew you could do it, and I know you’re still going to do so much more.”
If she reads this I just want Her to know that every time I write she’s a part of it….I mean the good parts, not the small dick jokes part…except when I allude to my penis being the size of a pinky, she’s a large part of that. Anyway, thanks for keeping me believing in something, Dyana.