A spectrum of emotion.
You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever considered what my ideal partner would be like.
Oh, no. Not at all. I try to get by. Sometimes I don’t let it cripple me, and sometimes I pretend I shouldn’t be six feet under simply because there’s not much I can do about it, but the truth’s always there.
I don’t think everything is a waste of time.
But I suppose if everything is, that’s not what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that they don’t want to waste their time on me and are just humoring me, having me around.
My lover continually reminds me that despite feeling paranoid about that, that’s not true and I don’t bother everyone all the time. Being reminded of that helps, a bit. But I still feel like I waste their time and am an irritation sometimes.
Because I can’t stand being around me and sometimes that makes it hard to understand why anyone else would want to be around me for extended periods of time.
I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m not wanted around after a duration of time.
Well, they’d have to ask about my whereabouts to follow up on that, of which I’d only give them if they came to me without anonymity.
I like meeting people! What better place to do so than in my own home?
Unless they seem horribly threatening. Then I amend that to what better place to do so than on my front doorstep?
No. But if you really want to see butts that bad you’re just going to have to come over.
Sir or madam or someone not yet decided, don’t you think you have had enough butts for one night?
Roswells are so totally featureless.
They don’t have ears. Or a proper noses. Or other featureful things.