Shit.

It's ok. It's ok!

I have fallen into smit with a brilliant, sub-PHD in english, charismatic, beautiful young man. Actually, I don't know his age, but he has to at LEAST be over 24, no? Jeez I hope so. Of course, since he's charismatic he might be a jackass, but his beauty is eye-of-the-beholder-ish, beholder being me, since he's all freckly and has a very slight lisp. And something tells me he's not a jackass. But then again, that something telling me has been wrong up to this point, so who's trusting here?

HEHE.

I've said too much already.

Ahh, to be nearly 30 and still boy-crazy. I have problems.

I'm also wearing horizontal stripes. Someone shoot me.

I miss Brighton today. I just miss being on the pebble beach, listening to the rocks bash against each other in the waves. Both the piers are gone, someone burnt them down, which is devastating to me, since I lived right between them on Middle St. I was such a strange, different person then. Only 23, learning new things, running from myself, doing anything I could to be anything but me. I still do that, but to a lesser degree.

Do you know how many years I have been writing about unrequited love? I have diaries from the 4th grade professing love and rejection. When in my life have I not felt ugly and inferior?

And my problems are nothing.

It's cold and rainy, and my mood is right there with it.

Better finish that goddam essay.