Sometimes I find myself in a weird mood. But not a regular weird mood, where I feel like writing something deep and moving and relevant, instead a mood where I feel like plagarizing myself.

So much of what I've written over the years has been the absolute truth. So true, in fact, that it remains true to this day:

The thought that a pretty face, or a sexy body, or a friendly personality - the thought that any or all of these things might be enough for me - that thought borders on hilarious.

There's always something missing, it seems. That thing which is intangible and all-important. That's the thing for which the need permeates me. I've found something to fill that need once, twice, maybe three times. I may never find it again. That would be sad, I think.

Desire is more important than satisfaction. Because you can never really have the latter without the former. If you try, it inevitably feels hollow and empty. It feels like a lie, and for good reason.

WeirdGirl and I talked about this stuff for a while, our breathing still synchronized, in the late hours before sleep took us. We've discussed it before, and it's starting to sink in, the things that I say. She's finally starting to understand me, and her understanding will probably signal the end of this. Whatever this is.

I was right, of course. She did begin to understand me. That understanding did signal the beginning of the end for us.

I could have lied to her. Either explicitly or implicitly, I could have been much less than honest and therefore been a much better boyfriend. But that's not who I am, how I am. I will not change. The truth is all that I have sometimes. All that I have left.