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I have a friend I love, and apparently to a degree, he loves me romantically. I can’t love him romantically, but he may be my one chance to experience something, so I guess I’ll take it.

He says he is attracted to my personality, not my looks. This is lovely, an ideal….if I didn’t feel like he’s saying I’m a dog.

He says he wants this relationship, but does not need it. I want to be needed.

He thinks I’m slow and I think similarly of him a lot of the time. That meeting of the minds that I yearn for is never going to be.

Maybe it’s partly my nature to not like someone who likes me, but I think it’s more than that. Even if he was the most handsome man in the world, the spark in my brain just doesn’t occur like it does when I’m around someone I’m attracted to.

I’m cursed on multiple levels. Even though everyone thinks I’m a retard, I yearn with all my heart to meet someone I can have a conversation with, who will see me as a person. I’m too (insert everything wrong with me).

He’s said I’m not good at conversation. If you spoke of something interesting and let me get a word in edgewise, maybe I’d surprise you, but who am I fucking kidding?

My friend still is mourning Oscar though he’s been gone almost 3 years now. Maybe it’s better to have never loved. Nothing to lose. I still talk to him when I’m overwhelmed, the way that when he was alive he talked to me when he was distraught.

I Hate Chat GPT

My friend keeps trying to come up with ideas to make money, purchasing a course on using Chat GPT to write children’s books and wants me to do it. I’d rather die.

“I’m not an author and neither are you,” she said. ” This will be great.”

I haven’t done it. To do it would be to take the only thing I like about myself and rip it from me. I may not be an author, but I can write a little bit. She’s read certain things I’ve written that weren’t terrible. I did have things published online mainly before my mother passed. Most of the sites are gone now ( probably jinxed them with my spectacular writing capabilities, but we won’t talk about that now). But hath not a blogger a mind? From what I understand, Chat GPT swipes stuff from many writers and spits it out in a new form. I have so many memories, happy ones of being complimented for my writing. If I did Chat GPT, it would be like burning off my memories with acid.

Second grade, making everyone laugh with a short story about a baby being born and talking right after.

Ninth grade, the teacher passing around a short essay about a cat I once had.

College: My art history teacher, long dead now, loving an assignment I wrote, in which I labeled Van Gogh ” the eternal wretch of the art world.”

Also college: Writing a journal that my creative writing teacher could read and grade, giving my observations on everything. I was deeply infatuated with my teacher and it felt as though I had her as my friend. She would write such wonderful things about my writing.

Of making everyone laugh and cheer for me at a bar when it was my turn to read for an assignment by that teacher. It was the true story of how I got my first kiss at 21 with a mildly challenged 46 year-old man, and how he later married a mildly challenged Vietnamese woman in an arranged marriage. That night when I made everyone laugh was the happiest day of my entire life. My entire life. Not joking.

People complimenting my writing on this blog over it’s lifetime. How much it meant that some people actually read my writing because they enjoyed it. And one woman who said she wanted to read every single post I wrote, which took my breath away completely. Of Loon saying she could read my stories all day when I published a short story. Of Aussie and Celtic being here reading me for a decade. Lehmar, and Animal Couriers often still read me too.

And Scott, who had a 165 IQ but still liked what he read, who complimented me so often, who said we had the same sense of humor. I hope you’re at peace now and know how much it all meant.

And my first grade teacher who taught me gently how to read and never forgot me, who up until she was killed by a drunk driver maintained that I was her favorite student ever. Did she teach me to read and write to spew AI at the world.

The people who liked my writing from Twitch and Discord, and before that, AOL. I can’t. I just can’t. Bastiat reading my fan fiction:

Don’t forget my mother, who was my biggest fan. Who listened to all of my writing and once said of one of my stories that she had never read anything quite like it in her entire life ( she meant it in the good way).

I can’t do it. K is giving me a silent treatment, but how can I erase the only thing that I hold onto?

I leave with an excerpt from when I wrote about my mother’s death.

Valentine’s Day

For Valentine’s Day, my despair was kept at bay by pepper steak with onions, hot and sour soup, and wonton/ egg drop combo soup. K bought it for me through Uber Eats after my present for her came. I think she might have anyway, but either way, I was happy.

Later in the evening, I made a call to Mr. Semi-Attached, but we were having difficulties on Whatsapp. I told him to call on Discord if he wanted, but he was busy. He asked me what I wanted. “Just to say Happy Valentine’s,” I texted. No reply. OK. Let it be said, he’s got the social graces of Attila the Hun. If he ever does come down here, he’ll find someone to fuck if not me. The joys of polyamory, I guess. Me, I just want to see what I’ve been missing out on these 45 years. What I missed out on when I freaked out on my would be ‘fuck buddy’ when I was 33. Though the idea of being basically someone’s cumsock sent me into despair back then.

I can imagine how it would be. My old school chum/ fuck buddy would’ve got me undressed, I’d have been too ashamed of my bulbous body and shy to let myself feel much excitement, he’d bust his nut, and I’d avert my eyes until it was over. I remember feeling nothing but surprise when I suddenly found his tongue trying to get in my mouth and feeling distress when he said he’d like to add me to his fuck buddies, of which he had a few. But I knew then at 33 that it might be my only chance to cross The Thing off my bucket list. Maybe me freaking out was a divine intervention. My old school chum swooped down a couple months after my mom’s death, vulnerability being such a turn on I guess. I wonder had I had him in my bush, would he have looked out for me? Would I have felt such desperation 3 months later when I had enough, comically in February and made my half ass attempt? Considering he’s never so much as said hello in the last 11 years, I guess I got my answer.

My friend who might be coming in the summer is much nicer. I love him, but I don’t love him. This is the best way unless some magical meeting of the minds occurs and my extremely guarded, avoidant heart opens up. But I think he actually loves me a little.

I keep thinking what I’m missing out on, and it’s much more than my sex drive which I’ve felt more of late. Cock would be nice, but I yearn for so much more. I want someone who could see through my hideous exterior and love me for being me. I would love someone who got my shitty sense of humor, but also wanted to have lengthy serious discussions with me and who wouldn’t see me as an idiot. Someone well-read and patient and who’d see me as ‘special’ in the good way.

The older I get, the more convinced that I’m such an anomaly that there isn’t anyone, and if there was someone, I wouldn’t be able to walk up to him. One thing I often felt with my memer friend was what if we had a serious conversation once, a lengthy one, in which he didn’t lie? While it wouldn’t have changed our relationship as friends much and he’d certainly see me as intellectually deficient , seeing as he has at least 50 IQ points over me, it would’ve been interesting. I think one of the reasons I can talk to him somewhat less shyly than others, is that I already know exactly what he thinks about me. I know he thinks I’m an idiot, a welfare leech, and not worthy of life. Somehow, knowing this makes it easier to talk to him. I can’t fall much lower in his estimation and it’s somewhat freeing. As much as it pains me to hear about my faults and how that ‘everyone is laughing at you’ and about my lack of likeability, it is refreshing. I think everyone at least finds me annoying and dumb, but the uncertainty is the killer, isn’t it?

Shit, my ear is ringing louder than usual. Maybe it’s how I’m angled. I always worry one day my tinnitus will get worse.

That’s it, that’s all I wanted to say as I feel my mood plummeting and damp in my eyes.