Ripping off the hands. . .

Sooo. Apparently 'Sex on Skates' has a girlfriend, which isn't surprising. Who's probably blond and beautiful, which isn't surprising. And he's totally nice and sweet and easy to talk to, which is a little surprising.

Then again, I suppose it's not. It's the short ones that are always assholes.

For some reason I've got this knot in my stomach. It's probably the sickening feeling of watching my biological success fly out the window. Obviously. (Here's a tribute to my bff.) I should probably just pull the hands off of my biological clock. That way it could just run and run and no one would notice. There wouldn't be the pressure of watching those hands move continuously around the clock face delineating my eventual decline. Towards the point of time in the future or maybe distant present when the pain in my stomach is the recrudescence of my insides. Or maybe the knot in my stomach is just a physical manifestation of all my doubts and insecurities. Which it probably isn't because if it was. . .It would hurt a hell of a lot harder than just a little knot in my tummy. It would be like that thing in Alien, the alien I guess, that goes tearing out of someone's (I forget who, actually I've never seen Alien. But I digress.) stomach. Not to say that I'm chronically insecure or fragile or anything. I'm kind of dichotomous in that regard. There are moments when I'm the most confident, charming, and vibrant person you'll meet.

And then there are times when I'm not. I'm timid and scared.

I find these latter moments strike when I'm asleep.

You honestly didn't think I was going to admit frailty did you?

I think it's because I always get my hopes up. Whether there is cause to or not. I truly am an optimist in that regard. I always think I have a chance. I always have confidence that I can do anything. I suppose you should blame my parents for that. After 20 some odd years of hearing that you're the best and the smartest, a person starts to believe it.

And then the grim truth of reality sets in. It's not anything to really be sad about. It just is. That's the thing about reality. There is no evaluative nature to reality. It's not good or bad. It's indifferent.

Time tumbles along without you. Whether or not you're happy about it or not. Just because you've ripped the hands off the clock doesn't mean it doesn't still run. You've just merely invented a device which clouds your perception.

That is something I can justify.