I'm a muscle fan.

Dear Blog World,

I had a beautifully written blog in my head earlier today. Something about my mom's life being tragic and how I want to be her but without having to have her life. But that's a problem, I thought, because either her life made her who she is, who I want to be, or who she is created her life. Either way, the conclusion was that no matter how many similarities there are between us, the man I fell in love with at an unfortunately early age is not mentally ill--and that makes all the difference.

Although that thought means a lot to me, it is not what I am thinking about now.

What I am thinking about now, what won't leave my conscious no matter how well it is cleansed, is Ryan Whittal. My (I wish he were my) soulmate's new body has shot itself into my mind so many times and so suddenly that the need to fuck him is becoming unbearable. Yet the more I want him in my bed, the more my chances stay at zero. The ZERO per cent chance of Ryan Whittal sleeping with me is getting bigger and bigger, so big in fact that I think I actually have a minus per cent chance. And I now think this is the cause of my headache.

Some people have called it the forbidden fruit fetish and it seems logical. But I have never thought of anything as actually forbidden. What used to happen is that I would get too anxious in the face of a wonderful thing actually happening, and shy away from it--but I would know it existed, I'd know it could happen with the exact amout of effort mixed with desire and luck. I am less shy these days (read my first blog "Spectacular") and so I am constantly shocked and heartbroken when the zero statistic proves true.

And when I go off on my Ryan Whittal tangents, I'd prefer it if nobody gave their opinion. I am so sick of hearing people say: "he's gay!" as if it means he won't have sex with me!