All I’ve ever really wanted is a sort-of normal life–you know, someone to love who loves me in return and can say those words to me sometimes and mean them. It would be a sad, sad thing to live and die and never hear those words and know they were meant for me alone. I don’t care about money or houses or cars or clothes or all the stuff people knock themselves out to get and then throw forgotten into a corner somewhere once the new wears off. Give me a steady kind of love, as comfortable as a really good pair of jeans, soft and comforting most of the time with the occasional hard bite of zipper and cold metal rivets. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted. And that’s all I’ve ever really been denied.
Wow. Melancholy. Rainy days and Mondays . . .