I’ve got people who see straight through me.  I was starting to think that my robot armor needed work.  Turns out I’ve just got good people.  People who see my flaws, point them out, and then we laugh about them.  People who get to see the wicked inner workings because I let them, and they don’t run.  People who tell me that sarcasm is awesome, that I’m not “bitching,” I’m “talking,”  and that think it’s endlessly amusing when I lose my temper and stomp around because they know it’s going to end with a snort.  People that fill every box of my calendar with laughter, love and liquor, who feed me when they know I’m too busy to take care of myself, and who don’t shut down when the robot goes offline.

Who ever would have thought I could look at so many people and say “You are my person.”

I think there are only two reasons to write:  To work out shit in your head or to document.  I used to do both.  I currently do neither.

Working out your head space seems a terrifying, daunting task when most of what’s in your head space is painful and sad.  I used to be able to keep the lid on the box but lately I feel like it’s overflowing and I have no control.

There is no documentation of the last few years of my life.  There are scatters of pictures here and there, saved emails and text messages, facebook status updates that are mostly in code and have been ruthlessly edited.

I’m trying so hard to forget everything that has gone wrong.  Believing that some day I’ll wake up and not be astounded that things could turn out this way.  Waiting for the day that it doesn’t seem novel that there are still people that exist that want nothing but the best from you when the people that you loved want only the worst.

I was reminded of this website and spent a few hours cruising around only to realize that I have felt this way before.  Why does it seem so insurmountable this time?  If history repeats itself shouldn’t it be easier to file it away each time?

When does getting hurt get easier?