My vice is contained in a thin sheet of metal, holding five years of lies close to me, clutched between anxious fingers. I just go from one to the other, I bleed too much and I eat too little and I eat too much and I drink not often but a lot. I want touch and sex and I like touch and sex and more than anything I want to be wanted because I don't want to be me, but at least somebody wants me. And if somebody, anybody, wants me, then I must not be this thing I think I am. I think, though, that I can only fool myself with that for so long.
I can't understand how I can content myself with being productive and cleaning and doing laundry and falling asleep in the sun when reading, and then after a relaxed and good day, everything just creeps in and before I know it, I'm stuck in it. I've always prided myself on being a little bit different from everybody else, but right now I just want to be normal.
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