it's 7:38 am, on December 27, 2001 - wanting and tired.

~

Been sitting here all night, knowing that I have to write an entry and not really sure what to say, right now. I'm cold. Mel says that I don't think positively. I told her I was a brat, and that it was part of my charm.

It's that quality that makes me understand Justin, just a little bit. I have enough ego to be able to identify there, and enough sensibility to know that it's ridiculously egotistical.

I wrote a huge fucking letter last night, because I need to send Al a package with some stuff in it. Am considering the Pink CD, if I can figure out how to burn it. Haven't decided whether to include said letter. Wondering about input on this decision.

Found these lines in a fic that caught my attention. I don't know that I feel like Lance when I get a gift of words -- I don't -- but I feel like whoever I'm handing them off to, feels like him. It's, unnerving. To say the least. I doubt I'll send any of the letters I write.

Lance accepted it with a word of gratitude and a small smile. What kind of ego, he wondered, did you need to possess to think that something you had created was ever good enough to be a gift? "I'm giving it to you," said JC again, rubbing his thighs like he was spreading icing on a squat yellow cupcake.

It sounded like he was entrusting the poem, its fragile words and blocky letters, to him, not just dedicating it to him. Lance was a literary zookeeper. He was unamused.

I'm just, tired.

Claire says she wants in a partner, 'someone who leans on me and lets me lean on them'. I say that the 'want' part of that is more important than the 'lean'.

~

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