Unwritten, Yet Known

Part of my Lent this year is writing more about my contemplation. Trying to work it out with words and not just thoughts. Maybe my thoughts will have a fighting chance of making it to deeds if they are processed. So…there will be some more meanderings into the inner workings of my brain this month.

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that said, “I came here with nothing and I have most of it left.” It’s funny. It’s clever. It made me laugh. It reminded me of a song a dear friend of mine wrote. It is my favorite of his songs. It is simple, beautiful, and profound. Always making me a little uncomfortable, but inspired. These are the lyrics:

I have nothing.
And this is beautiful to me.
Came here naked, screaming, and penniless
We cannot take the money with
When we go.
So baby, let go.

I am no one.
And this is beautiful to me.
Came here nameless, no one of consequence
With only so much innocence
And then it’s gone.
So baby, hold on.

My friend is an exceptional songwriter. He has a rapier wit, an astounding capacity for empathy, and an extraordinary mind. The first time I met him, I thought he was a bit odd. The second time I met him, I was convinced he was odd. I think he became friends with me because I listened to him. He has a unique way of communicating. And by unique, I mean that the meter of his conversation is usually adagio. He doesn’t really work in allegro. Most people get lost in the pauses and miss the melody. But one time, in one place, I remembered what he said and it made me think and I talked about it with many people for the next week. After I told him he made me think, our friendship began. I think his speech is interrupted with pauses because he is deliberate with his words. And don’t think I am not completely envious of that quality. He takes the time to let his poetry work itself out before revealing it. Or he is just odd. No one knows for sure. The perils of being an introvert in an expressionist’ body. But his process comes with pacing and many, many head bobs. This paragraph is not necessarily germane to the rest of the blog post. More of a “Hey, I said nice and funny things about you. So I hope you don’t mind that I published your lyrics on the interwebs without paying into ASCAP” kind of thing. He might and this entry will promptly be deleted.

The thing I love about this song is it’s juxtaposing of two conflicting ideas. Two choices that if held in tension with one another and exercised simultaneously either make you a contortionist, an over thinker, or potentially indecisive. Since I am usually two out of the three anyway and probably capable of the third, this song makes a whole lot of sense to me. I love contradictory ideas in theory. In practice, I find that my usually complex mind becomes very simple and demanding of simplicity.

I have been trying to wrap my head around a particularly contradictory concept for years. Often, it idles as my default song. The song I don’t notice is on repeat in the background. It has from time to time cloaked itself in counterpoint to whatever song is playing. But it is eventually unmasked and I return to the quest of trying to sort it out.

The concept is this: My future is unwritten, yet known. I have a great deal of difficulty reconciling that things are known yet unwritten. If my future is unwritten, then I have quite a few options. But if my choices are known, then there is an ideal or most beneficial one to choose. If it is known, why isn’t it ordained? And if it is not ordained, how is it known? And if it is known and I don’t choose it was it actually the ideal? This whole theological chicken and the egg thing makes me go cross-eyed most of the time.

I can’t believe that my future is unwritten and unknown. That would be to believe there is not a loving and gracious creator that is involved in my life. And I have seen too much and know too much to play that game.

I equally can’t believe that it is written and known. That would be to believe that this loving creator made me to be an automaton. I believe that I have the will, the choice, and the power to choose my own life in a manner that is unencumbered by some sort of predestination. I am not a passenger on the train of my life. I am the train. I am the track. I am the engineer. Toot! Toot!

I am working in concert with my creator. I am neither rogue nor slave.

By the same token, others around me are empowered with the same. And their choices influence and impact my course, my decisions, my life. And this confounds me and frustrates the bejankins out of me. Because I want to believe there is some sort of simplicity of doing the right thing and choosing the right course and things just work out. I want to live in a universe where I ask in faith what to do, do it, and something lovely is created. More often than not I feel like I came here with nothing and have most of it left. Like everything I try to build is a house of cards that just collapses. And if it all collapses, I must not have been the house I was supposed to build. Faulty logic, but real emotion.

I have a really hard time wrapping my head around all this. I mean a REALLY hard time. I struggle with the choices I have made. I feel foolish for the ones that have led to nothing. I struggle with the choices others have made. I feel foolish for hoping they were going to make different ones. And most of all, I struggle with the crushing sense that I am inadequate to make the right choices, choose the right road, and come out the other side in tact. And I struggle with the fact that there is no “right” road at all. There is only choosing how you walk. And my obsession with finding the right road has dramatically affected my gait. The questions just lead to more questions. And the answers lead to more questions. I’m hoping that the questions just keep leading to an answer I can understand.

These two conflicting notions of unwritten yet known are bound to live in harmony with one another somewhere. I am trying to learn how to let go and hold on at the same time so maybe I will get there.

You are Ugly

When I was a little girl, maybe 5 or 6, I would stare into the mirror until my face looked different to me. I would stare and see every crevice, the one or two freckles I had, and the shape of every feature, the color of my hair and how it lay. I would stare and stare and stare until I would say this to myself: “You are ugly”. No one ever told me that. In fact, I was told the opposite. I was surrounded by loving and affirming people that proactively worked to build my self-esteem. And to be fair, I was pretty cute. But this is the conclusion that I came to staring at my face. I was ugly. It was a time in my development that I was wrestling to distinguish between pretty and ugly, beautiful and grotesque, lovely and awful. For some unknown reason I couldn’t see anything that I recognized as beauty in my own face. And since I couldn’t see beauty the only conclusion to draw was that it was ugly.

It is the second day of Lent. I am a big fan of Lent. I love that there is a season that is dedicated to reflection and soul searching in order to discover our own humanity. To see how intractable we are in our own habits and behaviors whenever we try to make the slightest bit of sacrifice. It is in seeing our depravity and selfishness that we are given the opportunity to humble ourselves, recognize our flaws, and embrace the grace given to us to be at peace with God, at peace with others, and at peace with ourselves. In the liturgical calendar, there is Advent (the proclamation of the birth of our savior), Christmas (the birth of our savior), Epiphany (the public demonstration that he is indeed our savior), the ordinary weeks (where we do just about nothing), and then comes Lent. This is the time to fast in some form or fashion to see ourselves for who we are so that we can fully understand and embrace the wonder of his sacrifice and celebrate Easter with fervor and joy. Hopefully, Lent is a season of transformation that allows us to understand his suffering and learn better how to share in it. We need this time to fully understand that he died for us when we were still sinners. We need this time to see that we are indeed still sinners. We need this time to come to terms with what an enormous pain in the ass we all are. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven”. It is only in the recognition of ourselves that we can fully embrace the mercy and grace given to us freely.

But it is not enough for us to simply embrace this for ourselves within our own hearts and minds. In the Jewish tradition of the New Year, God writes the next year of someone’s life into the Book of Life on Rosh Hashanah, the actual New Year. But before Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement with God comes the Day of Atonement with others. They cannot ask forgiveness of God until they ask forgiveness of others. Matthew touches on this theme when Jesus says “ Therefore if you bring your gift to the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar, and go your way. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.” It wasn’t enough simply to ask forgiveness of those you know you have failed; you must go to those you know have an issue with you. Before you even come to the temple in an act of worship, you must be reconciled to each other. Before you can be reconciled to God, you must be reconciled to each other. Richard Foster says in a book about spiritual disciplines “Disciplines are best exercised in our daily activities. If they are to have any transforming effect, the effect must be found in the ordinary junctures of human life: in our relationships with our husband or wife, our brothers and sisters, our friends and neighbors.”
It is important to be introspective. It is important to take time to be alone with our thoughts, consider who we are and how we act, and allow ourselves to be disappointed in what we discover. But we must be careful not to let solitude become isolation. No good comes from keeping only one’s own counsel. We must work out our salvation with fear and trembling and let others see us shake. We are limited in our capacity to recognize our own faults just as we are limited in our ability to recognize our own beauty. We cannot make peace with God without making peace with others. We cannot be at peace with ourselves without allowing others to see and reflect what is ugly and what is beautiful in us. Ultimately, the healing we seek is intertwined. Peace with ourselves, peace with others, peace with God. They all lead to and from one another.

I’m not a theologian. I’m not trying to be. I’m not as learned in all of these things as I would like to be. But I know this: I love Lent. I love the concept. I love the practice. I love the ideal. I love what it is meant to produce. I love it. Love it. Love it. I love it until it comes and I fast from something. I love it until I spend deliberate time reflecting. I love it until it comes, I fast, I reflect, and stare in the mirror and all I have to say is “You are ugly”. Then, I just wish it were Christmas again.

Crafts and Glasses

I have an astigmatism that went undiagnosed until I was 11. A wrinkle in my cornea that made music notes blur together, tennis balls completely move in my peripheral, and made reading an insufferable chore. My mom, who taught me to read, was pretty convinced that I was just impatient. I would assume that if a word started with a “th” that is was “There” or “Then” when it could be something completely different. My eyes had just caught the start of the word and moved on down the sentence. She was always telling me to go back, slow down, and read it again. My brain was doing its best to compensate for my jumping eyes based on context of the rest of the sentence. I have glasses now so my eyes hold still most of the time.

My mother was right to suspect me of being impatient. Doing just about everything quickly has been my way for quite some time. When we were little, our school was work at your own pace. And I had a pretty fast pace. Such a fast pace that when I finished my work early, my teacher would give me crafts to do. I hate crafts. Always have. I reached my limit of making potholders out of Popsicle sticks by November. I asked for a watch for my seventh birthday. And although I was not very good at telling time, I would do a page of work, wait five minutes, and do another page. Thus ending my craft time torture. My teacher told me that patience is a virtue. I think that phrase is just a stall tactic for the slow. And when I find the person that coined that phrase, I will punch him in the face. Patience is a pain in the ass.

I recently had one of the most ridiculous break-up of my life. Four and a half hours to settle our two-month relationship. When it was all said and done, nothing was actually done, just said. And talk is pretty cheap. It's the actions of love that make the world go round. While in the relationship, I was consistently confronted with my own nonsense. Particularly, with my impatience. I did try not to let my past relationships color this one. I gave a valiant effort. Most of the time, I was terribly unsuccessful. Assuming I knew what this sentence was because I have read a few other books. Thank God that I have great friends and a great family that would tell me to go back, slow down, and read it again. It was easy for my mind to jump past the issues at hand and draw conclusions based on my well-honed skills of hopelessness. Polished and not so pretty, I fight them daily.

I think what makes patience difficult for me is the same thing that makes hope difficult. There are no guarantees on the other side of those journeys. There is however, certainty in failing to attempt. A life of simply existing, never being fully lived. But what also makes it challenging is the lack of results from past attempts. There are only so many times that you can suck it up, dust yourself off, and say, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” At some point, it becomes far too easy to say, “Nothing ventured, nothing ventured.” And if there is a shred of futility in an action, you bet your grandma I can find it. And usually blow it entirely out of proportion.

I have often heard the proverb quoted, “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick.” Usually when people are justifying the reasons they are no longer trying. And it is true. Not seeing anything come or at least not seeing enough come from your efforts is disheartening at best and soul sucking at worst. And it can cause you to either be a pessimist or an existimist. New word. Someone who is not assuming the worst, but rather assumes nothing. A life, who’s routine is its substance. An outlook that has an inevitable end in implosion. I don’t just look at the world or others with suspicion or assumption of their failure. I look at myself that way. And their failure inevitably emotionally registers as something fundamentally lacking in me. Because if I was worth it, they would behave differently. If I was better or more or substantial enough, my circumstances would reflect it and more things would go my way. Which is absolute bullshit. And drawing such hard lines in some sort of cause and effect manner is adolescent. The world is much more complicated than that. And people are even more complicated.

So…what’s the point? Good question. This is a super rambly post. I guess the point is that no one bothers to quote the rest of that verse. “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” I think I need to keep believing that I will find that tree of life. Hell, I should just make one. I think I need to put my watch away and make some damn crafts. Do some things I would rather not do to make the world around me a little more colorful. And when I am sure I know the end of the story, I should put on my glasses, slow down, and read the sentence again. I may never find the virtue in patience, but I know the disdain of hopelessness. And that’s no fun for anyone.

Lazy Man's Metaphor

Being one that has a particular attraction to precision in communication, I have a sort of obsession with metaphors, similes, colloquialism, and idioms. Idioms are funny. I tend to use idioms and then think, “Where did that come from?” And thanks to the Internet, I don’t have to go long wondering. I think they perplex me because we often use them without much consideration for what the words actually mean when strung together. I had a stint where I made sport of mixing up my idioms. Idiom madlibs, if you will. They didn’t seem to make any less sense in the mash up. My idiom experiment was more for my own amusement than anything else. And it made my sister laugh which was a bonus. But I must admit that I see them as a lazy man’s metaphor. There is not much precision in hijacking a phrase that you have no idea of the original origin. They just sum up what you are trying to say because you have confidence that those around you understand the connotation of the phrase. Regardless of whether or not the phrase makes a lick of sense. Like that right there. “Lick of sense”. Where the hell did that come from and what does it actually mean. A literal lick? Actually, yes. Turns out that since you can only get a small portion from a lick that word can actually be used to mean a small portion. So instead of saying, “A small portion of sense” we can say “lick of sense”. Poetic license, I suppose.

I have had one idiom in particular on my mind lately. “Benefit of the doubt”. I like this one. A lot. I use it frequently, which is probably why I started thinking about what it actually means. I also like it because I am the type of person that gives the benefit of the doubt more than I should. Sometimes when it is well established that you don’t deserve it. I’m like a credit card rather than an ATM.

First, I had to establish whether this was a true idiom or a colloquialism. Turns out that colloquialisms are regional idioms. Who knew? Then I had to sort out the etymology of the phrase. Unless the idiom has an actual context, you really just get a definition. Like “get a grip” is from the movie business. A grip is an underling. I think the lowest on the food chain on a set. When you needed something, you would get a grip to go a fetch it. It has evolved to mean you need to get your emotions under control in a given situation. Not sure how that evolution took place, but that is the magic of idioms. Anyway, Google was my friend in providing a definition. Essentially, in a situation where there is any doubt, the benefactor makes an assumption that the beneficiary should be trusted. “A favorable judgment granted in the absence of full evidence.” Now, this has me fascinated.

By this definition, we give the benefit of the doubt all the time. And honestly, without even thinking about it. I trust that when I turn on my faucet the water will not be poisonous. I trust that when I drive down the street all the other drivers are not going to intentionally run into me. I trust the cook at a restaurant has not spit in my food. We trust in all kinds of situations without ever gathering information before or after. Or at least, we collect minimal information. We function in life with an understood sense of trust in the goodness or at least the courtesy of others without hesitation. But in interpersonal situations, we can be withholding bastards. Waiting for proof before we trust. Letting past situations dictate how we react in the present. Some of that seems like wisdom and some of it seems rather silly. I think that when we are truly aware of what we want to happen or what we need and know there is risk we won’t get it, we then see the doubt. And we can let that doubt be fueled by all sorts of things to grow into a sabotaging monster. When a child desperately wants the approval of their parent, when a friend needs acceptance, when a lover needs assurance, when the thing we want becomes crucial to our sense of self worth, that is when we understand profoundly the power another has to impact us. And doubt with all impartiality finally shows up on our radar.

I wonder what would happen if we extended the same trust in situations that really matter to us. I mean, surviving a car ride to the store should be one of those, but we can’t really get to know all the drivers on the road. What if we trusted in a new friend, old friends, siblings, parents, etc. with the same blind assumption of their goodness? I understand that past wounds shape us and help us to draw appropriate boundaries. They give us much needed warnings. But I also know I sometimes hide behind the boundaries, behind the wounds, behind the assumption that was has been is all that will ever be like a sad song on repeat. I guess what I am hoping to achieve in my own life is exercising wisdom but not at the cost of being open to wonder and possibility. Not like an idiot that funnels my energy into pipe dreams. But one that loves like I have never been hurt. Trusts like I have never been betrayed. Gives the benefit of the doubt when the doubt is screaming its head off. And someone that smiles like a kid that has just seen a firefly for the first time.

Oh idioms. I really do think you are a lazy man’s metaphor. But you do make me think.

Get Your Lent On

Today is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. Growing up in evangelical America, we never celebrated Lent. However, I went to an Episcopal school for eight years. Some liturgical practices were bound to rub off on me. I never really understood why all the crosses at school were covered in purple cloth. Or why all the “Allelujah”’s were omitted in the mass. I really didn’t understand why our chaplain didn’t allow my friends and I to give up chapel for Lent. With some degree of honesty, we did believe that skipping chapel would bring us closer to God. Lent was quite somber and mysterious. And it seemed that a season meant to prepare you for Easter was super depressing. I understand that identifying with the passion of Jesus should be on the sobering side. But I still don’t understand why it has to be such a drag.

Most of the people I knew that did practice Lent would treat it a bit like a New Year’s resolution. They would give up a vice or habit. They were rarely things that actually made room in their life for greater meditation or times of prayer. Like giving up soda for 40 days really draws you into the heart of God. I suppose it could if you were crazy addicted (like me). On the whole, their understanding of why they were giving something up for God seemed to miss the point.

I’m not entirely sure of the origin of Lent. It seemed to be practiced in some form or fashion before being formalized in the Council of Nicea. It was always meant to be a time of penance and preparation leading up to Easter. A time with increased prayer, introspection, and focus on the sacrifice that Jesus made. The theory being that if we give ourselves more time for deliberate focus, we better identify with his suffering and hopefully our little Grinch hearts will grow a few sizes. There are folks that fast completely for the 40 days. Some skip a few meals a day. And many, many others give something up for God. I think that any sacrifice or change to our routine should give us pause. We are creatures of habit and routine. Disrupt that and we all have an autistic fit of one size or another. I suppose that there is nothing too trivial to give up for Lent. What is trivial to some is a crutch to another. As long as what you choose, actually brings you to a place of repentance, an honest look at the state of your heart, and leads you into a more sacrificial and loving life, you are on the right track. It is not enough for us to be contrite. Our repentance must transcend our own sense of forgiveness and affect the way we treat others. We give mercy because we are desperately in need of it. We love, because we are loved. I think a portion of Lent should be spent contemplating that we are loved and have received mercy for our own sake. Because we all need to know that we are loved and valued, accepted and cherished, just because we are. But if we stop there and we don’t let it change our behaviors, then we are really selfish and need to start Lent over until we get it.

I have only been really playing the Lent game the last few years. Most years I don’t prepare for Lent and it catches me off guard. It is amusing that you have to prepare to prepare. I have given up cursing before, and if you know me you know that is a legit sacrifice. Last year, I gave up complaining. That was scary. Quite a revealing time for me. This year, I have been stumped. I am sure that I have a routine, but I am not really sure how distracting it is or isn’t. I still feel like a jumbly bumbly bag of nerves out of place here. My level of activity actually needs to increase not decrease.

So this year, I have decided not to give something up for Lent, but rather to add on. I think that by creating a little more structure in my life, I will quickly see what I actually spend my time doing. To add on three activities that actually make me consider the sacrifice of Jesus and what it actually means to me and for me, seems like a good choice this year. I don’t want to forget why I have decided to celebrate Lent. As somebody on some website said Lent is a time “to repent of sin, to renew our faith and to prepare to celebrate joyfully the mysteries of our salvation.”

If you are so inclined, I wish you a happy Lent with the appropriate amount of crying here and there. And if you are not inclined, then I wish you a happy Wednesday, sinner.

Padews Away

I feel the time has come to explain the title of this blog and the reasons I chose it. When I was a little girl, I hated sleeping alone. I still do. A primary reason for getting a dog was so that he would sleep in my bed. I particularly liked to sleep with my parents. Luckily for me, they did not subscribe to the parenting that believed children should always sleep in their own beds.

When I was a toddler, we lived in a green house on Howard Drive. We lived there until I was 4. This is the first house I remember. And I have very fond memories of it. Mostly, I think, because it preceded a time when I would be introduced to the harsh realities of the world at a young age. Not long after we lived in this house, my aunt was murdered, a man in our church turned out to be molesting children, and I started going to school with children who didn’t think being a Christian was cool. These are the types of things can steal a bit of that childhood innocence. On Howard Drive, I would fall asleep in the hallway just so I could hear my parent’s voices. I would eat caramel apples while watching “Sha Na Na”. My mom would fill up the sink with soapy water and let me pretend to do dishes. I would try in vain to be the traffic cop for my brother and sister on their big wheels. (They never obeyed my commands). I would wake up early on Saturday mornings and beg them to teach me how to play Yatzee. I never knew they didn’t know how to play either. I remember rooting for Jimmy Carter to win the election because he had blond hair. Life was simple. I was a kid.

I was not the most skilled communicator as a toddler. I said “lestricity” instead of “electricity”. And I called pillows “padews”. In the mornings that I woke up in my parents bed after my father had his shower, my dad and I would play a game. It was called “Padews Away”. My dad would hold a pillow up over my face and say “Padews Away” and then drop the pillow on me. I would hold my breath while the pillow was above me and then squeal in laughter when it dropped. This memory comes with the smell of the room. A mixture of a down pillow, shower steam, and Pierre Cardin cologne. It is one of my favorite memories. One of those games that were uniquely my dad’s and mine. As a third kid, you cherish those things that are just yours and not shared with siblings.

As I started this blog on the precipice of a major life change, I was very deliberate in naming it. I wanted to recapture for my own soul that childlike wonder. The wonder that never feared my needs would not be met. The wonder that saw all things as good and safe. The wonder that can believe through trial and struggle. The wonder that should develop in adulthood to know that good things come to those that wait. Even if you feel like you have been waiting a very long time.

So, to my slow start in Nashville and the questions of why I am actually here, I hold my breath in anticipation. And wait for the laughter on the other side of the padews away.

Amanda Hugandkiss

I was at work the other night bagging groceries. My true calling. I never thought myself to be particularly spatially gifted. However comma I kick ass at bagging groceries. You have to aim high. Dream big. As Justin Bieber has taught us, never say never. I never knew that it would be possible that I could bag groceries with such ease and precision. It is kind of like in Sherlock Holmes when he sees how he will defeat his opponent before he fights him. That’s how I am with groceries. Mad skills. Mad, mad skills.

Anyway, I was bagging groceries when one of my coworkers who is a bit on the flirtatious side said “So what’s it gonna take? Dinner? Movie? Flowers?” I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. Then he mentioned the approach of Valentine’s Day. I then realized that this was his feeble attempt at asking me out. He told me I could think about it and get back to him. Really? It sounded a bit like “What is it going to take to sleep with you?” type of question. Much more than dinner and a movie. Even throwing in flowers won’t cut it. The phrase “too much car for you” comes to mind. Me being the car, of course.

It made me think about all the terrible lines that I have heard over the years. And I have heard some doozies. Once, I was cleaning floorboards at Starbucks and a customer came in and asked “How much will it cost me to get you on your knees?” I responded with “Does calling a woman a whore usually work for you?” I also had a guy order a super sweet, lukewarm beverage. He said, “I like my coffee like me women. Really sweet and not that hot. You seem sweet.” Really, dude. You just told me that I am not that hot. There was the lovely man that followed me home from the park when I was living down by USC. He kept telling me that he had a hot tub and “I like white girls. For real.” I think it was all the English he knew. For real. I know that a man asked my sister “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” She responded with “yes”. Sadly, she was not being snarky. She didn’t realize he was hitting on her. Bless her.

There is also a very long list of idiotic things men have said to be on the cusp, during, and after our relationship. But it would take a book to catalogue those. Not a long book. More like a coffee table book. “The 10 Stupidest Things Men Say to Women” kind of book.

I’ve also had some really good lines. There was a boy in Scotland that I saw three times in one day. I was walking back to the flat where we were staying when I heard running on the cobble stone streets. The boy was running after me. Rad. Doubled over and panting he said, “I just ran all that way. Please tell me you live here.” It was epic. Cutest thing. There was an Irishman who once told me he wanted to kiss my face off. I liked that one too. My favorite has to be when I was cuddling with a boy. He had his hand…well…on my ass. My fully clothed ass, let’s be clear. He kind of laughed for a second. I asked why and he said, “Well, one of the first things that attracted me to you was your intelligence. Love how smart you are. And I can’t explain why, but it’s such a turn on to have my hand on the ass of a smart girl” Perfect. Loved it.



I actually feel some compassion for men. It is hard to approach women. On the one hand, we want to be respected and seen as an intelligent, independent person, but we also want to know you think we are a hot piece of ass. It is hard to strike that balance. And I feel for guys when they try and fail. Then again, men can pee standing up and generally fall asleep anywhere. So my compassion is rather superficial.

I guess the point of this entry is rather obvious. I’m bored and lonely. And I need a man to hug and kiss. That would be lovely.