Over It

What Yossi wrote in the comments of my last posts kind of hit home and helped a lot. I spoke to Mr. Rose tonight. I was calm and quiet and told him what hurt me and instead of saying the negative of not doing it in the future, I asked him to do the positive of what I want. What I need from him.

He responded like the wonderful, amazing man he is and apologized and said that he would do it in the future. Then I mentioned that I knew that he knew that something had been bothering me and I asked him why he hadn't brought it up. He answered that he knew I would talk to him about it when I was ready. He was right. Ugh!! He's right an awful lot.

So things are fine now... but I just didn't realize how hurt or angry he could make me. Whoa!!! It freaks me out a little to feel those things so strongly, but I guess that goes along with how strongly I care for and about him.

I love him so I'll keep going and learn along the way. I'm so glad I have this blog as a release and for the support and advice y'all give me. It helps!!! so so so much!!! Thank you!!

Furious

I will not be taken for granted. I feel like I am taken for granted. I am not in a good mood. I might be pms'ing but that's not really the point.

The point is that I just asked him something last night that he not do in the future, and then he goes and does something similar again tonight. Well, guess what! I'm not just here when he remembers me. It's freakin past 10 p.m. and I had to call you. Well, I'm not going to do that again! Maybe I make it too easy in certain respects that I'm almost always available. Well, I'm not going to be anymore.

I'm so angry.

I'm so hurt. I'm not angry. I'm disappointed... disappointed to know that it's not really important and it doesn't really matter if he calls. It hurts... it hurts so bad. There are tears running down my face right now.

I don't need to worry if he's going to read this. He doesn't read the blog... especially if I don't tell him a new post is up. I feel like I'm being taken for granted more and more. I don't understand. I just talked to him about it last night. I was calm... no tears, no hysterics, just asking him for the future, and then he goes and does something similar tonight. I know I'm repeating myself. It hurts. I want him to go away. I don't want to hurt like this. I don't want to allow myself to hurt like this. I don't know how to do this. Maybe I'm just messed up. Maybe I just don't deserve this or maybe I just don't know how to be in a relationship.

I'm angry, hurt, disappointed, let down. It seems like it's a pattern. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm pushing him away. I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe it would just be easier for him if he only had to worry about his kids and himself.

It hurts. I thought I was supposed to be happy now.

The funny thing about this is that he has absolutely no clue how I feel right now. He has no idea how much he has hurt me and how I feel like I'm not part of his life... I'm tired.

I don't want to have to break down in tears to get my point across about how much something means to me, but I don't know what to do.

Don't know if I'll post this. Actually I will. It makes me feel as if someone is really listening to me when I post.

Happy Purim! (yeah, right)

It Seems Like Forever

...that I haven't written. It's only been about three months. It also seems like it's forever since I met Mr. Rose. Y'all remember him. The man who was good to me, who is good to me... so good to me. I've never experienced in my life anything near what he has given me; in support, caring, understanding, patience, and most importantly love.

I feel safe and secure with him in so many ways. I trust him with my emotions and I also trust him to stick around. He is the first man that I've ever introduced to DB as someone I'm dating. Not only that I tell him I love him within DB's earshot, and he's seen me hug him.

Now that's a huge step. I can't begin to write how my life has changed since he's become a part of it. UGH!!! That sounds so, actually most of this post sounds so, so ummmm.... so mushy, so lovey dovey, so grossifyingly sweet. It's just got to stop.

OK, so let's talk about fighting. I've had a couple disagreements with him. I've also pulled away from him... very far away. And he's still hung around. He wouldn't let me run away from him, but he gave me the room I needed to come back. This man is unbelievable. OK, OK, I've started gushing again. Yes, it's ridiculous.

The funny thing is that I never would've picked him for me. I mean c'mon he's about 11 years older, he lives in a different city, and before I started dressing him... well, he just didn't care that much. Yes, he dressed neatly. And yes, he wore clean clothes, but he dressed plainly. You could tell that he hadn't really bought anything for himself in quite some time. So, his daughter and I had fun together and got him some shirts and ties, pants, cashmere sweaters (so yummy to cuddle up to when he's in them, and yes he's yummy to cuddle up to when he's not in them {take that as you will}) a nice pair of cashmere lined leather gloves for Shabbos, a cashmere scarf, and a new suede hat.

He looks good!!!! And he also smells good. I told him how I like cologne on a man, and he went out to get some. Then he wrote a little screenplay about his search for the right scent. He's smart, witty, and knows what to say to me (in many different ways). He's the man! My man.
In case you can't tell, I've got it bad for him.

Oh! Forgot to tell you about the jewelry he gave me for my b-day, how my family loves him, how he sticks up for me, and how comfortable DB is around him.

Every time he reminds me of how long we've been dating (it was just our 4 month anniversary), we laugh because it seems like we've been together forever, even if it's such a short time and yet we look back and realize how far we have come.

Yes, he is the one who's been keeping track. I still get roses. He cleans my apartment and peels 10 lbs. of potatoes without a single complaint. HE DOES THE FREAKIN' DISHES!!! WOW!!! and believe me the man is not pussy whipped. He has a mind of his own and a strength that just attracts me to him like you wouldn't believe.

Don't really want to get into our sex life. OMG!!!! Can you believe that I'm writing that?!?? Me, Miss My Bed Is An Open Book. But it's personal. Whoa!!! I get freaked out sometimes in this relationship. I can't believe the things I now say and do. Anyway, I'll write more later. just wanted to update and let some of you know what's going on in my life. Plus I might want to one day look back and read this with him and laugh and laugh!

I Had To Share

Steg wrote a wonderful post on Korach or should I say Qorahh. Go read it here.

Writing 5

There came the time when the show could no longer go on. Danny just couldn't do it. It took too much effort to be the person, the people others wanted him to be. He decided to cancel the act but couldn't find the lines to say that fit who he really was. He was lost in other's ideas of "Danny."

The only thing he knew was the pain. The ache in his empty soul that only tears could fill. He was afraid that if he let out the flood it would wash away any slight remainder of who he thought he might be. What Danny didn't realize was that the water could be a refuge and tears could transform him in a pool of rebirth.

He made the decision to go to the hospital on a hot sunny day. He was cold inside and couldn't even be bothered to fake a return smile to the people who claimed they cared about him. He wanted his life back.

No, what he really wanted was a life of his own choosing with the ability to feel all that the world had to offer him; to travel through suffering and pain with tears and anger and arrive at happiness and accomplishment with love and sharing.

What Danny desired was understanding... of who he himself was. What he didn't realize was that he desperately wanted someone else there to be able to do that with him.

And that is how he came to love Stacy. She stood silently and accepting beside him with patience in her slow breaths, and scars of suffering dotted with faded marks from stitches up and down her arms.

Writing 4

He wanted the ache to stop, and the tears locked inside his chest to evaporate. He didn't want people to know how much he hurt and why. The thing is he didn't even want to admit it to himself. Most of the time he was pretty good at acting like everything was fine. "The Danny Show" was what he called it to himself. There were only a couple people he let behind the curtain and even then he didn't or couldn't express everything that was going on with him.

How could he when he didn't understand it himself? All he knew was the frustration, the pain, the longing, and the dreams. "How did he get here?" Was something he asked himself every so often and then he would stuff the questions down and try to forget about them. He would clear his head with a slight shake of no and get back into character.

Make A Wish

Just something that was easy and fun to write



Sometimes it would catch her by surprise. She would look at the clock and there it would be staring at her waiting for her dreams.... 11:11 "Make a wish." That's what her friends had taught her. And she would.

When she first learned about it the wishes were of ponies, a new bike, pink ballet slippers, and a brand new baseball glove that had to be broken in with saddle soap, a baseball in the pocket, secured with rubber bands and then put under your mattress.

She wasn't all girlie girl. Her best friend David could attest to that. Hell, with a nickname like Frankie you knew she didn't sit at home polishing her fingernails waiting for a boy to call.

Baseball was what brought them together. They became friends that first day at camp when she stole his favorite hat from his sweaty head and took off running. She wore it the rest of the day and it didn't bother her that it had never been washed. It was the summer before both of them were going into fourth grade, and they were inseparable.

It's not that they were outcasts. They both had friends of the same sex. It's that they were most comfortable when it was just the two of them . They understood each other. Her friends (girls) didn't get it when she talked rbi's, era's, and her dreams to play shortstop. Day's friends (boys) didn't understand his love of reading and writing. When they were together there was an easiness; conversations switching between how their team could've lost last night's game to which book was their favorite that week.



They hated the teasing, and they got it a lot. Their parents, friends and siblings just wouldn't let up. She was the only girl invited to his bar-mitzvah and as soon as he said hello at the party they both heard the kissy sounds of his classmates. He told her they were jealous when he saw the tears in her eyes as she ran from the party. And it was then that he realized that they probably were and with good reason.

She was special and even if she was only a buddy, she was his.

It took her longer to realize. All through high school, he listened to her as they would throw the ball around, about this guy or another. He never told her how he felt. He was always afraid she would laugh and think he was joking. She dated almost every guy in his class and some in the classes above and below. The almost was that she didn't date him.

It was the summer after their graduation when he told her. They were both going away to school, and he was afraid he would lose her to a college guy. He had almost lost her earlier that year. He remembered listening to her talk once again about how she felt about someone other than him, except this guy wanted to marry her. It shocked him into action.

She laughed while talking about it. Finding it so very funny that someone could even think of her in that way. She still loved baseball and hanging with the boys. She couldn't see herself as someone's wife and then later as a mom.

He took another look at the girl he loved and realized that she wasn't a girl anymore. Other people saw her as a young woman with a brilliant smile that would light up her eyes even if they were hidden behind glasses and under that ever present baseball hat.

Writing 3

It was summertime when he was admitted. Whenever he told the story that’s the word he used… not committed. Committed reminded him of commitment and love and he certainly didn’t feel that way about the hospital, about Stacy, yes, but not about that place.

Packing, driving there and even entering the building didn’t bother him. It was when he walked onto the unit. Keys had to be used to open the door, and when it closed he was extremely aware that he wasn’t the one holding them. In his ears, the soft sound of the door clicking shut echoed like the clang of prison bars. He felt like an inmate and was stuck inside just like one.

There were a couple of sofas, two tables, and some chairs around. All of them colored beige. People were hanging out and even though everyone was looking at him his head wasn’t faced down and he wasn't focused on trying to memorize the pattern of the maroon industrial carpet beneath his feet.

He was looking at the windows. They were big and the length of the room. They reached to the ceiling, but what pulled his eyes to them was the mesh grill that covered them. Another reminder that there wasn’t a way out.

His heart was thumping in his chest really pounding hard and he wanted to get to his room as quickly as possible. He was scared, terrified, and wondering what the hell he had done.

Ted looked up as he entered their room and said, “Hello, you must be the new guy.” It was almost funny to hear that tired cliché. He felt like he should be in an office wearing a suit and shaking hands.

Danny just nodded his head and noticed that the windows were here in this room too. They weren’t as big and had brown curtains hung in front of them, but they were still covered with the grill.

“Freaked out? First time?”

Danny just nodded again. Angry that Ted knew what he was feeling, but also relieved that he wasn’t the only one who had ever felt this way.

Ted walked past him on the way out and said, “The bed by the windows is mine, your’s is against the wall, and that’s your dresser. There was one opposite the foot of each bed in a bland wooden color and made of heavy duty plastic. With a night table next to each bed of the same material.

“Scared. I’m scared.” Those words kept on going around in his head. He was almost glad to be feeling something other than the numbing blackness that filled him. But then he felt the tears starting to rise. The reason he was here.

Writing 2

He never went to the meetings while he was at the hospital. It wasn’t required for him to go. In fact, they would’ve wondered why he wanted to. Everyone in the unit knew they were friends and romantic relationships were discouraged and frowned upon. So he tried to hide his true feelings for her in the friendship that the four of them shared.

They hung out together... smoking, playing cards, talking and playing more cards. But he didn’t smoke. It was just another thing that set him apart. They looked so cool with those cigarettes in their hands and blowing smoke ring after ring.

He wanted to fit in, be cool, manly... and he trusted Ted to show him how. They sat at the table and he learned how to pack the cigarettes by tapping the box so they would burn better. Stacy wasn’t around. There was no way he was going to make a fool of himself in front of her. He knew from watching tv that the first time someone tried to smoke they ended up coughing and looking ridiculous.

That’s what happened to him. His first puff was fine. Then Ted told him to really inhale and bring the smoke down into his lungs. The coughing fit started and so did the laughing. But he didn’t give up. He kept on trying intent on being able to smoke like a natural by the time Stacy got back.

It didn’t work. As soon as she walked through the door, most of the people on the unit including the counselors were vying to tell her how big strong Danny was brought low by some paper and tobacco. While trying to play it off, he noticed a little spark in her eyes and her lips tilted up at the edges ever so slightly. Danny decided that it was worth the attention and humiliation. But that was the end of his smoking.

Writing

I started this months ago and just found it. It's the beginning of a story or something. I usually write poetry but this just flowed out of me.



MEETINGS

He would go to the meetings with her. He wasn't exactly sure why he did it, just that it felt like the right thing to do. But it didn't really feel right. He didn't fit in. He wasn't a drinker and didn't even like beer, something he had never told his buddies instead usually volunteered to be the designated driver.

They met in a hospital. He saw her and wanted to save her, and he always wondered what she saw in him. He wanted to erase the scars on her arms with kisses and show her that life was worth living. He wanted her to live to spend her life with him.

He was so naive.

It wasn't the first time she had been here or even hospitalized. She knew her way around, the schedules, the terms, how it all worked. She seemed to know the staff, the counselors, the doctors, and even the cafeteria workers. She said hi to them all, but rarely smiled back at them.

He followed her around with his eyes. He didn't want to draw any undue attention to himself. The fact was she brought him out of his own misery. When he was thinking of her he wasn't wondering how the world could be so black with only a little gray. He wasn't stuck in his mind and his chest wasn’t aching with all those unshed tears.

Lying on his bed after he unpacked he discovered that he was only allowed to be in his room to sleep. He had to socialize. Just what he didn't want to do. He wished that his hair was just a little longer to cover more of his face. It didn't make sense and he knew it, but he felt that if he couldn't see them they couldn't see him.

Only after they became closer and would sit and talk at the round table playing crazy eights or hearts with other patients, did she lift her head to look at him. He felt her eyes studying him, but he was never quick enough to meet her gaze. He still had no idea why she was in. The scars on her arms were definitely a year or two old, and she hadn't said much but her name when they were all together in group. He felt a kinship with her, even though things had never been bad enough for him to try and disappear from the pain forever.

The longer he stayed in the hospital the more comfortable he felt there. But that’s not where he wanted to be. A little apartment with Stacy was what he was dreaming of. He kept that to himself. It was a dream just like the ones he had while lying in his bed waiting for sleep to close his eyes. In his dream they were happy and together. Her dark eyes would meet his with a smile. And that’s when he usually fell asleep. Thinking of those dark eyes filled with happiness.

Head Cold

My brain and my fingers aren't working that quickly tonight. I've got the beginnings of a head cold, and I'm so glad that Shabbos is tomorrow so I can crash. I'll probably sleep through most of it.

I can't think of anything to write... OH! A couple of people contacted me on Frumster. Don't know how I'm going to proceed. They're good looking, and intelligent. I just don't know if I have the energy or desire.

I couldn't even think of what to write when I was replying to their messages. And y'all might've figured out by now that I am rarely at a loss for words. (I did say rarely--so don't even say anything, and you know that I'm directing this to you!! Stop laughing too!! It's not funny.)

My Friend, Petey

I’m so silly, and I’m so lucky. I’m lucky that I have a good friend. Let’s call him Petey. He makes me laugh and always has, even though his jokes are so, so, so very horrible. He listens. And not only that he has the answers to my questions. That is a major feat!!!

Petey explains and reminds me of things that I should be able to know and remember by myself. My emotions sometimes get in the way. The funny thing is that sometimes we are both talking about someone or something completely different than what the other one thinks and yet his advice still seems to apply. It's obvious that we're both strange. Yes, Petey, you're strange, but you knew that already.

He helps me keep my head on straight, and not get into too much trouble. I get lectures sometimes (alright, about once a week) on different matters, and it doesn’t bother me in the least. It means he cares, and I appreciate it.

He gets me to laugh while I’m in the middle of crying. OK, OK, it’s not that difficult to do. And yes, I already know I’m weird. Just about everyone who's ever read my blog can attest to that.

I guess the real reason for this post is so that I can say, "Thank you, Petey. And I'll bet you a nickel you never figure out why I called you that."

btw- Your offer to call blew me away.

Friends Don't Let Friends Write Sleepy (I mean "while sleepy" Just another reason why.)

When it's late at night I get more emotional not to mention the fact that this increases with the amount of sleep that I have gone without. It's not like I'm drunk just a helluva lot more emotional. In case y'all didn't notice, I'm an emotional person to begin with.

I got back to Oz yesterday evening, but I couldn't sleep because of the caffeine that I had earlier in the day. The night before I was up late doing laundry otherwise I never would've had the caffeine to begin with. So even though I was wired, I was also exhausted. It's kind of difficult to think straight like that, and of course, I felt the need to write out my emotions.

Actually, what I think I need to do is wait a day before I post, talk to someone or get emotional when I'm tired. Now I understand the sayings; Let me sleep on it, and Things will look different in the morning.

btw-last week I didn't get too much sleep... not an excuse, just an explanation

Needless to say, I shouldn't even be posting this.

Becoming Jane

Happy endings can be written
but not lived with the passion
and yearning for their life together

Alone in the future with words for company
each story ending with love
while her own must continue without
not willing to hurt him through his family

Doing what is right and necessary
Instead of what is wanted
For a love never to be lived
but imagined and dreamt
Created with characters

each one, him
each hero, him

because her thoughts are full of him
and the only way to rid herself of them
is to give them to others
as she has given him to others

Everyday, every night
She remembers his behaviors and tones
With a smile on her face.
Hoping that he is happy
That what she has lost
He has gained without her

She was never erased
Always a reminder
In a name of a beloved child

It does not still the beating of her heart
or dry the tears on her soul

He has not forgotten


If only he had,
then perhaps one day she will.

Writing

Do you get scared before posting an intimate story, poem, or intense and questioning feelings? Do you feel compelled to share them anyway... to open your soul so that the world can embrace it or trample it at will?

I find it easier to expose myself to many people at once than to just one person privately. Maybe it's because there's a lower chance of rejection, ridicule, anger, disgust or even shame. Because there must be someone out there who has experienced even the tiniest bit of what I write.

I'm thinking about why I write. Yes, it's expression and I use it as a release, to clarify and then try to look more objectively at my thoughts and feelings. But I think I write for understanding, interaction, feedback and accomplishment.

My writing voice is much different from my speaking voice. The tones and word rhythms I hear in my head are more formal. Isn't that funny? You would think they would be more casual. But maybe its because I view my thoughts and emotions with such intensity that is deserving of a more serious and formal tone/voice to express them. I love to write and forgot how much I loved it... how it flows from my head to my fingers.

There was a time when I refused to write on my computer. I was used to a more visceral experience... of my pen pressing down hard on paper leaving marks of the letters on the pages underneath. Crossing sentences and words out because I disliked the way they fit was always down with numerous strokes which then used to annoy me when I felt that I needed that phrase or word in another part of what I was writing. I would have to stare at the paper to find the shapes of the letters hidden under the marks.

Then I started to use computers and saw that the words could flow more freely, quicker than with my right hand and the callus on my middle finger, that bump from gripping the pencil and carving my words. It has started to get smaller and not as noticeable. Believe it or not my brain still works faster than my fingers and when I have a thought of another line to follow if I don't write it down it's possible to lose it as I get involved in the thoughts I am writing at that moment.

It can get distracting sometimes. I prefer to finish the thought I'm in the middle of rather than to write down a reminder word or phrase afraid of losing the flow. And now I have done just that and am racking my brain trying to concentrate on these words hoping that the idea will decide to come out of hiding, as if it's punishing me for ignoring it.

I even reread all the above to see if it would kick start it, but it seems that it's gone. But instead I go back to how I used to shuffle the papers around. And I've just remembered that I wanted to write about how I would agonize over first sentences, how I would write and re-write them. Or even start with the second sentence knowing that something a certain rhythm, cadence of words naturally belonged in front of it. I used to place the papers with different sentences and switch them around till I felt they fit together.

Do you write with a rhythm in your head knowing that a certain word comes next with two syllables and the emphasis on the first one? I do. If I can't remember the word I want I don't usually fill it in with a synonym instead I leave it blank and come back to it later. Re-reading and drumming out the beats of the word in my head until it comes to me or until I use a thesaurus. I do this when I write prose as well as poetry.

I just read an essay on poetry and on the rhythm of syllables. I need to read it again so that I understand it better and can actually use it and the terms describing it that were written there. When I read different authors the words on paper set a rhythm in my head. I like the way it feels, different than my own thoughts.

I guess people would call it a style of writing but when I hear that word it reminds me of the characters and descriptions a writer uses not their____. I also find that writing late at night or very early morning the words flow easier. Is it less barriers because my mind is tired after a long day and thoughts and feelings come out??? Don't know. I'm getting a little too tired to write now it's about four in the morning, and I've been listening to the slight click of my fingers on the keyboard.

What a difference from the sounds of typewriters or even older keyboards. Maybe it's easier for me to write with a computer now because the sound is less distracting to the rhythms in my head. But I remembered one more point about how I also write using an informal voice. That's when I hear my talking voice in my head. It's when I feel as if I'm having a conversation, maybe a more relaxed or joking conversation with the reader. And that made me think that maybe my formal voice I also use my formal voice my writing voice when I speak. Hmmmm.

Too tired to continue and the thoughts are not fighting for attention in my head anymore. My eyes are closing so I'll end this post. I'll read it later to edit it for spelling etc., but this one just wouldn't leave me alone until it was done. Good night or should I say good morning the birds have been singing for over a half hour now. That makes sense considering that its now 6:30. I thought I started writing a little earlier. Guess not. G'morning to you guys I'm off to get some much needed eye rest.


After reading this over again before I posted, I remembered another thought that I lost while I was writing. It's that I don't listen to music when I write. I like quiet. That way I can hear the rhythms more clearly... so maybe that's another reason why I like to write late at night or early in the morning the world and my life is less noisy.

I Did It This Time

I just sent in the same poems that I thought I sent last time. I didn't want to wait another month and a half to find out if they were even received. I know for a fact that the editor got them this time. "Thank You CR. Your poetry has been submitted," popped up in the next screen after I pressed enter.

I'll be notified within two months if they are going to be used.

Did I Do It?

I just sent in three poems to a poetry zine. At least, I think I sent in three poems or maybe it was four. By accident I hit a key on my keyboard, possibly enter, and then the whole submission disappeared and another screen popped up. Instead of bothering the editor, I'll wait two months to hear from them. Submissions should be responded to by that time. If I don't get any news then I'll resubmit.

I went over the poems again and again and one of them I didn't even bother submitting. Plus I sent them to a bud for his opinion, but I don't think they'll be good enough to be accepted. So.... I'm waiting for my first rejection letter/e-mail. Giving up is not an option, but I'm wondering how many of these letters will accrue before I'm published by someone other than myself.

btw-did you notice that even my fingers are klutzy???

Ow! I Did It Again

Yup, I did it again... self-inflicted.

Late last night I was having a conversation with a good bud of mine in Israel. I was in bed while I was talking because it was so late, around 2 a.m. He wanted some help with something so I was on my laptop (to you smart asses out there, not actually sitting on it) and I was trying to get comfortable.

Maybe it happened because I was tired, maybe because the conversation had most of my attention, maybe because I was trying to find something on my computer at the same time, or just maybe it was because I'm very talented at inflicting different wounds on myself. I scooted my tush to lean back in bed and BANG! I conked the back of my head on the wall behind me.

Yes, I knew there was a wall behind me. It's what I lean my pillows up against when I'm writing, reading or working. No, the wall has not moved any closer to my bed recently, and no, I had not been drinking.

I've got a nicely sized raised bump on my head. When I do something, I make sure to do it right. But at least it can't be seen like some of my other mishaps here and here and yes, here. And I finally understand the saying "seeing stars". The pain took a minute to register and then WHOMP! It hit me like a ton of bricks, or a cement wall, take your pick.

Hand me another bag of ice and stop laughing!! OK OK, how can I ask you to stop when it still makes me giggle, hee hee. I hope the swelling will go down enough so that I can put on one of my numerous baseball hats when I go to pick DB up from school.

ARGH!

I'm stuck. I can't write or rather nothing decent is coming out of me. I know why, but when I try to write it out in a post or poem it makes no sense or is just plain horrible. Maybe it's because I'm just not sure of what's going on, and I need a feeling that's strong that encompasses me instead of confusing me.


I've been getting some, ok ok, a lot of questions recently. They usually start with "I've been reading your blog. Who are you writing about? Are you dating? What is going on ?" So here are some answers...

He's a friend or started out as one. I've known him for awhile and then things just changed one day. Up to that point we had only been e-mailing and chatting. Then we spoke and y'all know how I am about voices. I know that in the past that I've said, "this guy I like has a great voice!!" But this man has a voice to melt glaciers. My legs turn to jello when I hear it. I was a goner, but only because I've known him for quite some time.

There's a connection between us. Maybe he's experienced it before with other women, but I've never experienced it at all. It's frustrating, fascinating and has me so off-balance and confused. He "gets" me. I can talk to him about anything, really ANYTHING!! I've never ever in my life been able to do that. I could also talk to him for hours. Actually, we have been talking for hours and hours. I know about him, his family, friends and what I hear I like.

Yes, he reads my blog. I'm not sure if it's regularly or on occasion, and there's a chance he might read this. That still doesn't stop me from writing. He knows all of this anyway, and it just helps me figure things out. He lives in Texas so we haven't met yet. Yeah, yeah, I know. I just wrote that I wouldn't spend time on the phone with someone I might date, and that I would get to know them in person, but this is different. I already knew him, and I've seen pictures of him. He's a good-looking man. Yummy!!

Not Making Sense

I've started four new posts within the past 2 days, but I couldn't finish them. The posts are about HIM. Then, just like now, my emotions are all jumbled up and get stuck on the way out. The words are there but I'm tripping on them. Maybe I'll stop worrying about sentences and whether or not it makes sense, and write it down anyway.

Yes, I care about him... deeply, and not just sexually, although there is definitely major chemistry there. miss him want to trace his face with my fingertips and feel safe in his arms. he understands me like no one I've ever met, and knows what I'm thinking before I do. Sometimes I don't think he's real... just a fantastic creation of my overactive imagination. He's a man, but I can see the boy that still lives inside of him.

I could talk to him for hours, and sometimes I catch myself smiling just because I'm listening to his voice. I'm trying to figure this out and I've spoken to some friends about him. I'm not used to this.