Stolen from May 17

I promise I don’t do it on purpose.
I promise I don’t have some kind of plan, some kind of hidden agenda when these things happen.
It’s not a fetish or a masochistic craving. 

I just get involved with the wrong (sometimes right) people at the most inopportune times.

I honestly try to segment pieces of my brain (and that thing inside my ribcage that controls emotion) away from the logical side of me. I put anything and everything I can’t have in those compartments and they play around in there, knowing full well I can’t ever let them out; knowing full well they can’t ever interact with my sensible sides.

But those sneaky little pricks do. They wander out of their home and become curious and explore my compartmentalized life. They taunt my sensibilities and entice them to play games. Horrible horrible games that I don’t understand. And when I catch them and send them back inside the small home I’ve built for them, the only emotion I can gather up is guilt.

Guilt because it shouldn’t be that way. I should learn to let them play together. I should let them explore. I should keep my doors wide open instead of bolted shut. And when the little bastards trip and fall and scrape their knees, I should be fine with pouring a little alcohol on them. I should be fine grimacing from the pain. At least I can enjoy what I can’t have, even if it’s just for a little bit. Better to get a small taste of the possibilities than to never see or feel or experience the excitement and tingles and pain.

One more lesson learned today, one more lesson that I hopefully won’t forget. But for now, I’m locking those little curiousities back in. They’ll be able to come out and play again some other time. But today, they know what they’ve done. Today they’ve been lectured and scolded and reminded. Reminded about the dangers of playing with fire. Their burned hands have been bandaged, ordered not to touch anything else until they heal. Hopefully it will take a while. I don’t think they’re ready to face the next adventure just yet. I don’t think I am either.

Strange

I am a strange, strange creature of unimaginable habit.

As we all know, I write. Anything and everything is up for discussion within myself. And yet, I have not found a place to store my musings yet. I’ve had Xanga for more than six years now. Six years. I’m sure if I (and you) read some of the things on there, we’d all be embarrassed. I’ve been trying to move on, but nothing. I haven’t been able to find anything. Blogger, Myspace, Facebook. None worked for me, although I still continue to use them when my fingers start to itch. And I’ll probably re-post some favorites on here (cause I do have plenty of those), just to get the ball rolling.

So for now, I try you, WordPress. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, seen a lot of good you can do. Let’s hope this is a fruitful partnership, eh?