I’ve been keeping most of my stories to myself. I like to talk but only to someone that’s really interested in listening. I guess I keep thinking maybe someone will want me to share all my silly stories and sidetracked conversations that sometimes lead in a dozen different directions. I feel like I’m stockpiling right now, so it makes me nervous because I gulp down the pain of remembering what that one dude said, ‘that I scare people away with my boundless energy and intensity, that I can be overwhelming’. He was a dickhead and boring anyway... so fuck him. 

I miss swapping stories with someone that makes time for me. Staying up all night giggling and just enjoying the space between us. There’s intimacy and then there’s intimacy. Intellectual connection is sexy. Perpetually learning about someone can be an incredible experience and I miss that more than sex. I mean I miss sex and fucking and touching but damn I miss being held and just being. I don’t know why I think about this anymore. I’m not even trying to date. Anyway it’s an errant thought and I guess I just needed a cathartic way to talk it out with myself, it’s a strong reminder that I need to keep healing. 

I found hope in a bottle and I love how the message washed ashore in my mind. It’s not lonely on this island but I wouldn’t mind sharing it. Well as long as there’s no lord of the flies type of shit. I don’t need any more power struggles in my life. I really do just want to be a gentle breeze that passes through the leaves, but I also want to be the waves crashing on the sand.