One of my good girlfriends from school is in the hospital with contractions and she's only in week 25. She's already lost one (miss carried early on) that's horrific enough I can't imagine loosing one at this point. If he's born now he at least has a fighting chance unlike the last one. IDK if it really is but it seems like it would be harder to loose this one since A: it's the second and B: they've named him and set up his room and everything. God how heartbreaking it must be to walk into you dead child's empty bedroom. I pray that he will be ok premi or not. If he's not born right now she will probably be on bed-rest for the remainder which is like 15 weeks I can hardly imagine that kind of house arrest. 

Sometimes it seems to me that I am leading an imitation of a life. Like it's hollow or something. I mean to look back at things it seems there are portions that had substance but taken as a whole it's a collections of decisions made on thoughts of what should or aught to be done. 

Let me ask you: What sort of help is it to set me up with a gay guy?

I haven't met him so all I have to go on is his FB but lets examine the evidence:

Favorite:
- Artists are Streisand and Susan Boyal
- Book Pride and Prejudice
- Movies You've Got Mail, Yentl, and Funny Girl (really? who puts that)
- Says he's single but does not specify that he's into girls...

There's not much more on the profile other than this information. I mean as someone who has played the part of the ignorant beard and who does not wish to repeat it I have learned to look for some red flags and this dudes red flag is made of silk that drapes beautifully on his partners pecks and is trimmed in a tasteful animal print. All he needs is pictures of himself in a white sailor costume from the Halloween he spent in Frisco "OMG it was SO crazy you don't even know"

Maybe I'm wrong.

And maybe Steven Hawking really can talk he just prefers to sound like the computer he knows he is deep down inside. 

Whatever. Worst case scenario is I'm right and now have someone to french tip my right hand.

Sometimes I desire to sit down at the computer and write something, create something, convey something. I place my fingers on the keyboard and suddenly no words are in my head and I wish that they keys were white ivory and not black with letters. I could sit down to the piano and wish that my fingers were pressed firmly on five strings and strumming away at the guitar. This sort of thing goes on.

Never in the right thing it seems. I don't know what I want to say or how I want to say it.