So, blogger, as you may have noticed, it's been a long freakin' time since I wrote to you. Why, do you ask? Why have I patently ignored your existence for several weeks, only once coming back to placate you with quoted text? Because I have been failing to see the purpose of it all. Don't look so shocked and hurt, blogger! You know I could never actually turn my back on you, my outlet for self-absorption that will never criticize or stop listening. I'd say I love you, but really, all I'm loving is myself. And that's the problem. I have contempt for myself more often than not. You can't really hate someone you don't love, and so I know I must love myself, because I sure hate myself. If you want to know why, then I'll take a roundabout way of trying to not answer that while still talking a lot, as I do. What have I done lately? Oh, the usual. I read a bunch of books, actually, and danced and danced some more, while working, throwing my sleep cycle around until my body is hopelessly lost as to when it is supposed to be awake or asleep, and hanging out with people here and there. I've met a lot of people, whose names don't matter until I see them again, and it will have been long enough that asking again (or even remembering for that matter) will be no big deal. And I've gone to bed early, several days over the past week. Yah, that shocked you into silence, didn't it? I must be sick or something; no, I have no idea what it is. Probably depression, or another of those indefinable diseases that everyone tries to pretend doesn't exist. I don't know, I'm so busy being normal along my own bizarre lines that I'm not taking care of myself emotionally, to compliment the fact that I take little care of myself physically or mentally. My ability to function as a rational, stable human being is deteriorating, and I'm surprised that more people aren't asking if I'm alright. I guess they're just all so used to my antics. It's like a drug addict; you don't ask if they've been smoking again, you just assume when their eyes are a little blurry and they seem happier than usual. If I seem down, everyone assumes I just haven't been sleeping again, goes on with life, hope I sleep soon. Where did my friends go? I cling to every chance I get to hang out with someone "as a friend" rather than "as a fellow dancer/partier". I just feel hollow, hiding behind my masks. I know how I feel, so I try and look for it in others, reach out in the little ways I think I can, when I think I can. Does it make me a good person? Sure, why not. It doesn't make me happy. I'm not a freakin' philanthropist. I don't help people because it makes me happy. I help people because I want to be helped. And it doesn't seem to be working.