So this is the family, back when we were nuclear and idyllic. Distressing note: This is the only photo I could locate of the entire family. Father: Don't write much of him, formative bastard he is. Mother: Lesbian-with-partner close to my age, travels the world and sends postcards of beaches and trees, reminding me to not forget a relative's birthday. Sister: Protective, over-bearing yet tender, visits too often, makes me wonder Does she live here? Brother: Surfer, snowboarder, typical jock; we don't know each other well. The people I yearn the most to love and be close to are strangers, more my doing than theirs.

Bathsheba, perturbed by the moniker in my journal. One of the best decisions I ever made was to stop her in the stairwell; she reminds me that there is a child deep down and it is okay to bring him out to play occasionally. I kissed her once, on the forehead, losing my nerve and the moment, leaving Seattle shortly after. I wonder sometimes What If, don't you?

Spec, the guy for whom I gave up everything I had in my hands. Some said we had the gay fairy tale, and I half-believed it, aside from the bruises and black eye he'd give me when frustrated. I let go and got hurt, but the fall is something I will always remember. I want him, he wants me, I can't have it; almost before it was too late, he had me thinking I deserved being hit. I didn't and I don't.

Dana, who convinced me to open up and be loved. I want to keep her close to me and not turn my back; unsure whether I would be welcome or not and in that uncertainty, do nothing.

A[deleted]a [image coming soon], best friend. What more to say? Loves me despite everything, gives me hope. It's not impossible.

Shannon, close friend, confidante. Read her blog here.

Barbara-the-Editor: My editor at the publishing company, with whom I teleconference each Thursday and who hasn't yet learned I'm not motivated by money. A sweet woman with an accent I enjoy and vise-hugs I can never dodge in time.

The Lady Friend: My father's girlfriend who considers me and my home an extension of my father. I've woken up to find her cleaning my house, planting flowers in my back yard, and cooking extraordinary feasts. She is the best influence a man could have.

The Guy. I don't reciprocate, won't, he's fine with that and swallows. Crass, but a win-win situation, aside from he being a man and making me feel degenerate and nasty.

Conrad: [image coming soon] Odd neighbor who sweeps the street, picks up fallen leaves, spies on everybody. I can't get enough of him.

I realize I don't write of many people in my journal. Is this good or bad?

 

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