"In every heart there is a room ... "

Late last night I composed a silly, sentimental little poem for Chris and sent it to him via text message. When I asked this morning, at first he said he hadn't seen it. Then he said he "might have glanced at it" but couldn't remember for sure. I felt incredibly stupid and presumptuous for having sent the thing.

Do any of you ever reflect on how life is an awful lot of trouble? Strife and bother, whinge and slobber, sound and fury signifying nothing, or at least not as much as we'd like to believe? I'm not saying suicide is a good choice, but if you could just sort of painlessly X yourself out of existence, wouldn't you sometimes think about doing it? Wouldn't the temptation chafe you like that irritating but stimulating seam in your trousers? Is the Imp of the Perverse as real a thing for you as it has always been for me?

And if you're trans, does the Evil Monkey of Doubt ever cling to your back and gibber about how you'll never fool anybody, you'll be the butt of bad jokes, all this angst and money and pain and effort and you'll still be called ma'am/sir all your life, why the hell are you even bothering, uck-uck-uck ...

I'm not going to DO anything, I promise, so none of this DOC YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT commentary. It's just one of those moods. I can blow off steam here when I can't do it anywhere else. But the ideations do rear their wormlike heads from time to time, and don't you hate it when you try to express them to someone, and their response is "I'm very tired"? WELL, GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, THEN, I'LL TRY TO REFRAIN FROM DYING OVER HERE. LOL. Lulz. STFU.