i’m not anything special. i’m not anything bright or shiny or precious or needed. i’m not even practical. i’m not someone who will help you out of a jam. i’m just a burden on myself and others, and that feels bad to think about. even the people who love me, i have a hard time believing they love me. or i think, rather in a common way, that if they knew the real me, they would not love me. i swear, i choose the most unfortunate, impossible people to cherish and set apart in my mind. i’m a hoarder of bizarre fascination, introverted infatuation. i bet religion stems partly for a lot of people from that fear. that no one in the physical world could love them for who they are in their deep bad soul. lol.. people so hardcore. but for reals. their hidden thoughts, their terrible acts. so there MUST be something else,’there just has to be, right?’ they think. otherwise the world would just be truly unfair and callous and cold, lol. boo freaking hoo. maybe the big ugly truth is that people don’t deserve to have that all-encompassing forgiveness and compassion and understanding. but who am i to say? nobody. i try to give that compassion and forgiveness and shit as much as i can anyway, but it doesn’t come from any spiritual place. it is just the choice i choose, the choice that makes me feel best about my own personal world-space.