kealli

nothing. how sad is that, really. everyday i find i am less and less turned on by anything. the gods only know how long it is till i actually can stop joking about it and actually acheive the horrid state of eunuch. worse yet, it has been so long since anyone has even attempted to turn me on that i can't even recall what it was they may have done. mostly i have taken the responsibility of pleasing others, and most of my companions just have't cared enough to return the favor. welcome to the joy that is my life.

i'm getting old at much too young an age, and have been jaded for longer then your oldest living relative.

hmm, you may have a point. however, accurate food preperation does require a certain amount of talent whereas writing just requires you to be literate. anyone can write a poem, how many of us have any idea for the proper preperation of Quiche Lorraine? i know i don't, but i do know that i can get anyone to be a writer.

i guess i am saying it is very different, and that no, i don't really think i have any appreciable talent for words. i just write, and while many of you seem to appreciate it, i find it hard to believe that any of it has any merit past idle amusement.

we shall see though, perhaps i will randomly bombard people with my work...

oh. well christ you need to be a bit more bleeding obvious about something like that in the future. erhm, achem ahh

"thank you for thinking i am a good wiriter. your praise is like the first snowfall of winter. you know, the one that happens just at dusk on a grey day, where you run outside in excitement and dance half-clothed in the flashing crystaline light of reflected and refracted street lamps. where the temperture is just at freezing but you still feel warm and cozy because this is what winter is. this is the apotheosis of snow. the kind of snow that reminds you of every great snow storm of your childhood, of getting up early and spending an entire day making yourself sick with fights and sledding and the sheer refusal to come in out of the cold. that snow fall where you head inside and cuddle up next to someone who makes you feel at ease in front of a fire, and you sit side by side, not speaking because there is no need. it is perfect contentment.

"that is what your praise is like."

.... and i am not dark, i am bitter and morbid from a short life of death, pain and disappointment. for some the glass is half full, for some half empty, for me, well i assume it is probably laced with some awful poison or contagion and that you're fucked now so why bother worrying.

no, i don't like being this way, but all i have left in life are my words and my books. too many of you have failed me and have failed yourselves. all i ever wanted was to show you what the world could be like if you took a moment to see it in a way you never had before... but you were all too busy, you were all too certain your world was right and all others were false.

or it could just be that i have managed to alienate all the things that mattered to me once, and have forgotten how to care anymore.

but thank you for your kind words and your concern.

by the by, i am always smiling... but most people learn it is a smile of congenial contempt, not favor.