Does that mean you are telling me to fuck off again? I don't understand you. I thought I had been pretty clear. Does it make you happy to watch me take the bait and then pull it away? My feelings get hurt just as easily as anyone's, you know. I'm not here for your amusement. If anyone were able to observe this, they'd tell me I am a complete fool and I deserve whatever you dish out to me for being so stupid. Fuck you.

Trying to have a self-deprecating sense of humor about the way I put it out there does not in any way negate or disparage what I was, and still am, feeling. I want all those things, but often don't have the courage or the missing filter to articulate them unless my judgment is somewhat impaired. I still want to take you somewhere you've never been, literally and not metaphorically (well...maybe metaphorically too) so we can interact outside the framework of what is expected of us. Nature is always good for that, at least for me. I like the shelter of the woods. I want to show you the secret spring--which is also not a metaphor for something else, I swear, but I suppose it could be if you wanted it to be so. The practical problem for me is knowing whether you really want to engage in this or if you just are in love with the idea. I guess it is up to me to put my ego and pride on the line and find out, which scares the hell out of me. If my only choices are to lose you completely and forever, or to learn to enjoy the sexual tension in a friendship that might never be consummated, obviously I choose having you in my life somehow. But frustration easily turns into despair. The trouble is that I always seem to get shot down when I ask. Am I supposed to just show up unannounced and take you away without asking? I get the feeling you wouldn't like that much either. So I guess my question is do you prefer this to exist only here? Because once it's on the physical plane it seems guilt prevents either of us from making anything happen. That being said, trying to intellectualize these feelings or to analyze them rationally has never worked for me. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I just know I want you.

for writing embarrassing drunk wish-fulfillment prose? If so, I should probably join it right away

my 4am drunk writing seems trite and nonsensical to me, but the sentiment is genuine and the intent is sincere.

It feels as though you've been reading my mind the past few days and addressing my insecurities, as your initial return to this conversation left me confused and hurt. When you withdraw and I can no longer feel you in whatever imaginary space this is, I wonder again if I've just imagined this entire thing. The entries that followed left me hungry and aching, though I'd rather feel the persistent dull pain of longing, of delayed gratification, which I have learned perversely to enjoy, than the piercing despair of having been discarded, forgotten, no longer worthy of time or energy. I still don't know if that was the intended effect, or if you are talking about someone else now, so my desire is tempered with sadness and caution, guarding against being hurt. But when you talk of exile and return, my entire being perks up as though you are speaking to it directly, then surrenders to a compulsion to flow on an invisible current to you. Flowing now, flowing through.

fever pitch.

please, please, please

when/where/how

against my better judgment