i revel in the circumstances of my own self-denial. i pore over false idols of sexual servitude and pine away over those that exist only in my head, but am faced with no physical alternative other than my own hand and fleeting smiles like lightning bolts. i sneer and snarl over issues that are so distant to me that they could be different languages, all the while wishing for a reason to protest. i can list my own shortcomings verbatim but i struggle to find a time when i am truly happy. i yearn with puppy-like intensity for that which I cannot achieve. in circles i ramble, avoiding the real issues and the real problems.
i hate those that tell me to wait for the right moment. those that tell me my time will come. those that desperately try to reassure and refill my ever lowering still of self-esteem. those that seem to have found the happiness and contentment that i so ache to create.
i hide from my own advice. i hide from my own sense of self-betrayal. i hide from my problems and blame it on myself. i prop myself up with humor and bad timing, when all i want is to be strong and silent.
i want that kind of feeling you see in the movies. all i know i learned from the movies. my life has become a virtual playground for hollywood to wreak havoc. i am a victim of my own making.
i am breaking my own barriers. i don't want to be single, but i don't need anyone to tell me i'm good enough.