Prologue

Dear ______,

It is now 1:30am on a Saturday night and I am sitting at home on this warm night with nothing much to do except pick up a book, read a little, write a little while in the background, my television is blaring. I'm watching an old television series, one that I watched when I was 10. It makes me feel old but reminds me of times less complicated. Every now and then, I sit at my piano and play a random piece. I am finding myself increasingly drawn to Chopin, not because I feel any particular musical affinity to him over any other composer but his pieces seem to allow me to express a frustration and offer me solace as my hands glide from one end of the keyboard to the other to, no doubt, land on the wrong chord. But apart from Chopin, I am endlessly playing Debussy's Claire de Lune, partly because I have it memorised and partly because the chords and melody do something to me; something that I am as yet unable to explain. It makes me feel sad and consoled at the same time.

In any case, I am writing to you because we seemed to have ceased our correspondence, for whatever reason. I'm writing to vent about my failures. I can't seem to write what I want to write. I can't focus on any particular thing long enough so as to give me a sense of satisfaction and achievement. And I think I am unhappy. I don't really know why I'm feeling this way but it's a feeling that is gnawing at me. I suspect it is partly due to loneliness. It is, after all, a Saturday night and I am sitting at home. I also have to go to work tomorrow and with each day that I have to go to that job, I find myself increasingly dreading the prospect. I would like to leave and do something else. Do you remember I mentioned that there was a job I was thinking of applying for? I haven't applied for it yet. I am hesitating because I don't know if I want to leave the comfort of a familiar and steady job, especially in these turbulent times, to move onto a job that I know nothing about. Of course, my friends say, "Just apply for it anyway and see what happens." I know, in all my pragmatism, that their advice is correct. After all, I feel I have spent too long a time in a single working environment for someone so young (although I am no longer as young as I feel, which is another factor that urges me to apply for the job).

But another reason behind my hesitation is that I have decided that I would like my next travel destination to be Peru. When I was 10, I did a school project on Peru and I've been in love with the country ever since. Do you remember a cartoon series on the ABC called 'The City of Gold'? It was about these two kids on a journey looking for a city that legend says is made of gold. I'm not sure if they were Aztec or Incan children but I loved that series. I do remember something about the Nazca lines so that leads me to believe they were Incan. But I digress. If I do start another job, I'll have to accumulate annual leave all over again, which means my Peruvian adventures will probably have to wait for at least another year. I'm not sure if I want to wait that long. But then again, maybe it's time I grew up and started putting career considerations ahead of leisurely pursuits. After all, we all have to face that moment when we decide to grow up and become adults. I think maybe that this is the moment for me to decide such a thing.

In the meantime, before I make my decision, I went out tonight to Borders to buy Lonely Planet Peru. But while I was there, I also picked up Iris Murdoch's 'The sea, the sea'. I have read about 10 pages of it and it is magnificent. It tells of a retired actor who, from what I've read so far, is writing his memoirs. In it is such sadness and resignation, cloaked in a quiet dignity. I immediately related to him. Is that strange, seeing how he is in the 'recollection in tranquillity' stages in his life yet I am not even thirty? In any case, it is so beautifully and elegantly written - so descriptive and picturesque, lucid yet mysterious at the same time - that it evokes in me feelings of inadequacy. I am not gifted or special in any way. Is this what it means to grow up, to fully realise the reality of one's limitations and the boundaries of possibility, even though we've been told all our lives that we are able to achieve anything to which we set our mind? Such a fallacy!

So yes, I am unhappy. But at least this letter seems to give me a few more possible openings for that essay on the disease of the modern age I've told you I've been trying to write. Now if only I can overcome my lack of concentration and focus on it long enough so that I can complete it.

Sorrento Moon

During the mayhem of everyday life, there are many times when I wish I was the only person on earth. For example, even though I'm generally pretty zen, I regularly let loose a fusillade of vehement imprecations when I weave my car through the madness of inner city traffic. In fact, I abhor the chaos of peak hour so much that I absolutely refuse to sit through it, unless it's a matter of life and death. And when family or other tensions arise, I would wish I could be in a far-away place, never again to be bothered by melodramatic displays over inconsequential issues. Well, I had a short and, I suppose, a very insubstantial taste of transporting myself away from human connection but it was definitely enough for me to determine, at least for me, the feasibility of living in complete isolation.

This weekend, I made an impromptu visit to the small town of Sorrento in Victoria's south-east. A friend of mine has sequestered herself away in a beach-house in Sorrento to write a book away from the hubbub of city life. Having spent a few weeks isolated from society, she invited me over for a visit. Shameful as it is to admit this, I've lived in Melbourne all my life and have never set foot outside the bounds of its suburban limits. So naturally I jumped at the chance to spend my weekend in a house by the sea in the quaint little town. I quickly packed away a few weekend necessities, hopped into my car and began my journey on unfamiliar roads.

It takes about 2.5 hours to make it to Sorrento by car and when I left the house, it was about 8:30pm. By the time I reached the country freeway, the roads were deserted and I was submerged in a thick darkness that dwarfed the small patches lit up by the headlights. Here, in my car, driving along a dimly lit road, flanked by wild bushland that my vision couldn't penetrate beyond the hedges immediately beside me, my imagination transported me into a world where I was the only living soul left on these bare plains. There was no civilisation - only me and the road. Then I entered a state of panic.

As I was driving down that road, I gradually increased the volume of my cd player. I shot my eyes around rapidly to survey my surroundings to no avail due to the impenetrable darkness. And, should I chance upon slight illumination either in front or behind me from the headlights of other cars, I experienced a strange mixture of fear and comfort: comfort because it served as a reminder that, despite the world into which my imagination plunged me, I was not the sole survivor on the planet. But I experienced fear also because I glimpsed in those flashes of light a reminder of the untimely and gruesome ends met by travellers in strange lands à la Wolf Creek.

When I questioned the source of my panic I realised I was experiencing separation anxiety. I've always considered myself pretty independent emotionally, meaning I don't think I have any real attachment to people. That may be a mechanism that desensitises me to the fact of my sparse human contact due to my incredibly unmanageable shyness. In any case, I generally prefer to spend time alone, submerged in solitary activities such as reading and the piano.

But when the country freeway ended at the entrance of the country town blanketed in night, the sight of houses with lit-up windows pushed the balance of my strange feeling in the favour of comfort. I knew that, if something happened, there would be people who may acknowledge my plight and come to my aid. I was with people again. And I was even more comforted when my friend opened her front door and welcomed me with a hug and a warm "Hello."

So this little tryst with isolation has taught me a thing or two. There is a certain danger in being alone. Whether real or imagined, the danger is there because the safety net of being amongst one's kind is removed. I suspect that this safety net comprises of a combination of pragmatic concern, for example, in case of an emergency. But more importantly the other component is the more basic necessity of human connection. It seems that complete isolation, at least for me, is not a possible mode of life. I do have some insights as to why the latter factor of the safety net is important but that's a lesson for another time.

The Head Or The Heart?

I've always wondered what makes people love. Of course, having no real experience in the matter whatsoever, I'm still no closer to making any solid conclusions. But it seems that it's comprised of a dynamic diad between what's held on your shoulders and what's armoured by your ribcage. Well, for medical accuracy, it really just happens in your head. But nonetheless, contrary to associations usually linked to cerebral function, love makes people irrational. So it's no surprise that people needed to find a symbol for love that's distinct from the brain. After all, that grey slush with all those gyri and sulci is definitely not as attractive or marketable as a cutesy heart when it comes to designing cards for St. Valentine's day. But I digress. The bottom line is, thoughts and feelings both happen in the brain.

Cognition and emotion are the two fundamental element that makes us who we are. But how much does the action of one impinge on the action of the other? Love is definitely a case in which the struggle between head and the proverbial heart seems to be irreconcilable. Many poets personify this struggle in fables where the emotional impulses are so strong that it overrides all practical considerations. Romeo and Juliet, one of the most celebrated love stories, has always seemed to me a documentation of two young fools where, in the end, the heart wins. Beautifully poetic or not, I wonder what would happen if our two star-crossed lovers had given greater weight to their cerebral impulses. That leads me to the question: how much conscious control can we exert over our emotional impulses?

I have met the perfect man. He is a young Italian man with a light shadow of stubble framing his da Vinci-esque chiselled jaw. His frame is solidly athletic and anything draped over his body gives the impression that it was designed specifically to complement his physique. And his eyes shine the shade of sparklingly clear boyish mischief when he looks into the light. So, not surprisingly, when I first laid eyes on such a beautiful creature, I felt my ribs' structural properties challenged by an overly active heart. And that damned circulatory pump got the better of me.

After one year of crafting situations and opportunities to bask in his presence, dismissing other prospects as unworthy compared to this embodiment of masculinity, I ultimately learnt that it was not possible for me to induce the same engulfing emotional impulse in him that possessed me when I'm in his presence. Why? Because he isn't gay. When faced with such a devastating discovery, what's a poor smitten boy to do? At that stage, I still did not give priority to what my cerebral cortex told me was the best course of action: to forget him and move on. I stupidly languished in thoughts of him and continued to grasp voraciously at any chance to catch a glimpse of him for a further half-year.

But a friend frustrated and fed-up with hearing about my futile encounters with my perfect man simply told me (and very wisely so), "There comes a point when things lead to dead-ends and you simply have to make the decision to let go, then let go." I knew my friend was right. My infatuation with my man was completely insane, unproductive and detrimental to my person in more aspects than one. So one day, I simply got up, decided that I will no longer give in to my vain impulses and forget about him. And from that day, I slowly learned to let go. Since then I have not gone to see my man and have not thought of him nor felt any of those once-frequent warm feelings towards him.

That was one year ago. Since then, no other man may have been able to arouse that same intense joy in me but I have moved forward in my search for love. I am extremely proud of the little steps I have taken towards finding my happiness. And I have been able to do so because I refused to give-in to the irrational and instead listened to reason. But the other day, I happened by chance to glance upon my perfect man again. I felt that familiar stirring deep in my chest, and also in a region slightly lower, once again, although much attenuated in intensity compared to the previous occasions. Despite this, I have made allowances for these involuntary impulses. I am choosing to acknowledge them but since no amount of effort on my part would bring any real connection between my man and I, I am consciously choosing to dismiss these impulses and move on. So, while the eternal struggle continues, I know that the more worthy (albeit less poetic) contender will win in the end.

At A Crossroad

So anyway, my 25th birthday is coming up and unlike most people who bask in a sea of festivities and gifts to commemorate another year's survival, I sink into a state of complete depression when this time of year comes around. In the few weeks leading up to it, I can't pull myself out bed, none of the music I play comes out right (unless it's Rachmaninov's Prelude in C# minor - a study in agitation) and all my friends try to avoid me because I am definitely not good company to say the least. I suppose I get like this each year because I feel like I haven't really achieved much with my life.

When I say achievement, I guess I really mean career movements. Yes, like everyone else, I have a degree with honours but after completing my degree, the thought of pursuing a path in that direction makes me, even now, shudder in complete disgust. So for the past few years, I've been working a menial office job that isn't going anywhere and spending my spare time mulling over thoughts of what I should do with myself. And now, 3 years after my stint at university life, I'm pretty much still no closer to deciding what to do with myself.

Actually no, that's not true. I have always felt a calling towards medicine. But even so, given that it's such a huge commitment and the job is wrought with responsibility and obligation, I still have huge reservations about stepping down that road. And while I've signed myself up to sit the entrance exam more than once, I brain seems to resist absorbing any information when studying for it. And with the exam coming up in 3 weeks, I definitely have no hope of passing. So perhaps my body is telling me I'm not ready to commit myself to medicine. So I guess that means I'll be putting off the exam for another year. But having made that decision (yet again), I still can't help but feel I'm dilly-dallying, wasting time. Time is definitely not on my side but I can't force myself into doing something I don't feel ready for.

So instead of sitting around brooding over the exam and medicine for another year, I've decided to use 2008 to get things out of my system. For example, I have to learn to get over this debilitating shyness of mine and date more, to put myself out there more and meet new people. Who knows what would come my way if I do but I think it's definitely a step in the right direction. Another thing is I have to leave my relatively well-paying part-time job and find something more productive and developmental in terms of gaining experience for future career opportunities. And lastly, I have finally decided that I would like to experience the European lifestyle later this year. Sure, I'll be spending my savings but it is something you should do young and while you have the chance. So Europe, here I come. It definitely is a scary move for me. In fact, I regret writing it already because I fear I won't put my plans to action. Nonethelss I need to be shaken out of my comfort zone and saying it puts it one step closer to reality.

Everyone is afraid of getting older. And justifiably so because as age increases, time decreases and you realise that things aren't what they used to be. I think I put off doing a lot of things because while I know the number arbitrarily assigned to me which denotes the amount of time I've been on this earth slowly grows, I can't seem to shake the feeling that the number is supposed to be a lot smaller than it really is. And I become a train-wreck each time my birthday comes around because it's a very painful, cruel and incontrovertible reminder of the incongruence between what I am and how I feel. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. At least this way, I am jolted from my state of stagnant complacency and will venture out there and see what the world might have in store for me. Maybe then, I'll be one step closer to being happy.

Is It Better To Have Loved?

I'm a strong proponent of the school of thought that art enriches our lives. As such, I very much disagree with Oscar Wilde's sentiment that 'all art is quite useless'. Now, I don't approach art from a rigourously intellectual perspective. Rather, I let the art envelop me and affect me on a visceral level. It is through art that we can experience different planes of consciousness and dive into pools of emotions and thoughts that one thinks oneself quite incapable. And so, one of the cultural events of 2008 that has me gripped with anticipation is the theatre adaptation of Timothy Conigrave's book Holding The Man. And sure enough, it will be, for me, one of those rare experiences that will seep into my viscera and grow into an emotional epiphany. That's why I'm writing an entry on a play I haven't seen and a book I haven't finished.

In his memoir, Conigrave invites us to share in his memories of how a teenage friendship in the 70's evolved to become a great and timeless love story. The book recounts and explores the trials and tribulations but also the intimate and cherished moments between the Timothy Conigrave and his love John Caleo. Through his unsophisticated prose, the memoir offers such a microscopic examination of their intimacy that it imbues Conigrave's words with excruciating poignancy. Their's is a story of a love that endured despite encountering every adversity imaginable; separation, temptations, deceit. When the AIDS crisis hit Austalia in the 80's both Tim and John were diagnosed HIV-positive. But even in the face of death, the ultimate separation, their love endured to the end. But when John died after a long and complicated illness, Tim was left with an absolute emptiness. "You are a hole in my life, a black hole. Anything I place there cannot be returned. I miss you terribly." These are the despairing words that conclude Conigrave's elegy to his love.

Since I haven't seen the play or finished the book, my knowledge of Conigrave's story doesn't extend much further than the summary given above. But even so, each time I read the description of the play, my eyes well up with tears, mourning the loss of two men who found such deep and unwavering love but were ravaged by disease and death. Each time those closing lines echo in my mind, I am transposed onto Conigrave's soul and live the desperate isolation he experienced in his final years without his love and I am engulfed by such despair and anguish that it paralyses me. I wonder if I would have the strength and tenacity to survive that penetrating loneliness if I had a love that was lost. Now I reconsider my own personal journey for love and doubt the value of love in my own life. Is the love worth the pain it leaves?

This year has not, so far, been auspicious for love. St. Valentine's Day has just passed and amidst the conflagation of romantic gestures, none of that residual heat, let alone fire, extended its warmth to me. But more importantly, earlier this year, two of my closest friends, who were in what seemed like a happy relationship ended their romance after 8 years. They were the model couple, a sort of archetype by which others looked to for a yardstick to measure the success of their own relationships. They were the high school sweet-hearts that were happily engaged. I was to be their best man. I have their wedding speech written. They were my beacon. Now that light is extinguished and I mourn its loss.

Even so, I can't help but have this yearning for the closeness and understanding I read in Conigrave's words and saw between my two friends. I want to live for myself what appeared to me like the most precious connection between two people. But can't help but think that love is a hopeless situation, inevitably spiralling down a path paved by hardship and loss. And as I read Conigrave's elegy, love's worth is diminished and I lose all hope. Is there no hope?

But wait, I lied in my quotation of Conigrave's final words. The words that seal his love letter are actually, "Ci vedremo lassù, angelo." And while these final words resonate with loss and separation, I see within them a faint glimmer of a thread that ties Tim to John, that their love is not lost. Their love did not just endure until death, it endures beyond because I see them both clasping each others' hands, never to part again. It is this love that makes the history of their lives and everything that it has touched more precious and the importance of what existed between them is beyond any doubt and question.

A Small Bid Adieu Retroactively

Given the huge gap between the date of the last entry and this one, you might've guessed that I've been somewhat neglecting my blog of late. Unfortunately, I'm in a strange state at the moment. I described it to fellow blogger The Melburnian as being caught between moods, like suspended breath. And the result is complete incapacitation.

So I have to extend a most sincere and humble apology to the 2 or 3 regular readers of my blog for not providing them with the new and exciting accounts of my life (not that I've experienced much excitement lately) that they have hopefully grown to love through this journal of mine. It is selfish of me to be missing without informing anyone of my absence. So I apologise and post this small notice of my previous absence and a hopefully very small extension of this absence into the future.

I will be back in action very shortly, pending the lifting of this paralysis that has overcome me, which, for my sake, I hope will only be for a little while longer.

Cape, Tights & Undies Outside

If I could be any superhero in the world, I think my name would be The Rainbow Warrior. Even though I'm not one of those loud-and-proud kind of guys or even a flaming queen by any means, I'm very proud of being gay. When Chip and Reichen, two gay lovers, won series four of The Amazing Race, I leapt out of my seat and let out a triumphant roar. And when Anthony Callea finally came out (seriously though, who didn't know?), his act of courage so filled me with pride that my eyes welled up with tears. While I wouldn't be the first to volunteer to front the gay pride march, when it comes to defending the gay commmunity, you can't shut me up because I find every argument against homosexuality completely spurious and motivated by either lack of understanding or hatred.

But yesterday, I stumbled upon a subject that completely made my stomach turn and, dare I say it, feel shame for the gay community: Bug Chasing. No, Bug Chasing does not involve entomologists scouring the Amazon for new species of creepy-crawlies. It's when guys go out and bareback with the intention of being infected with HIV. You have the Bug Chaser (the HIV- guy who wants to be infected) and the Gift Giver (the HIV+ guy who will infect the Chaser). The whole concept is completely insane. But that's not the worst of it. This is where it gets really sick. There are events called Bug Parties. At Bug Parties, there is the host and the participants. There are a couple of variations to the set-up but a particularly sickening one of is where there is one HIV+ man amidst the crowd, whose status is only known to himself and the host. The remaining participants are HIV- but are aware that there is a Gift Giver among them. The crowd then participates in an orgy of unprotected sex. And so the night ends with one or more participants possibly contracting the virus.

There are cases where men deliberately place their partner at risk by not divulging their HIV status to them. One such case is Michael Neal, a 48 year-old Coburg man who not only lied about his HIV status but also admitted to deliberately attempting to infect other men with the virus. The reason for his actions? To breed the virus and widen the pool of men with which he can engage in unprotected sex. To me, people who deliberately infect others should be immediately castrated as punishment and prevention of further infection. But this case is different to Bug Chasing in that his partners did not actively seek to be infected.

So why on earth would anyone want to be infected with HIV? There are a number of factors that may explain why there are Chasers out there. One theory postulates that some men live with significant anxiety and feel that HIV infection is an inevitability. So they actively seek to be infected to 'get it over and done with'. In The Gift, a documentary about the Bug Chasing culture, one character says, "I was relieved, I didn't have to worry anymore. Do I need to be careful? Not anymore."

Another possible explanation attributes the Chasers' psychology to upbringing. Gay men grew up as boys who have always felt isolated and different from everyone else. Since HIV is almost synonymous with being gay, they feel that having the virus is like an initiation into an exclusive club; a matter of feeling like they belong. Then there's lack of education or a misunderstanding about the nature of the course of HIV/AIDS. Since the advent of antiretroviral therapy (ART), many people perceive HIV infection as a disease that can be held in check simply by taking a few pills. So fear of the illness has slowly dwindled over the years. Unfortunately they don't understand that there are different strains of the virus, with different levels of susceptibility to ART and can lead to different degrees of the disease's severity. Furthermore, the virus may become drug-resistant, therefore leading to a disease-state that is very difficult to manage or no longer manageable.

The culmination of these latter two factors is embodied in Doug, a character also featured in The Gift. Doug moved from America's homophobic mid-west to San Franscisco in search of the gay community. There, he became a Bug Chaser and when he was infected with the virus, he felt a sense of finally belonging to a community. Unfortunately he is now trying to cope with the unexpected severity of his illness.

The fact that there is this sickening sub-culture amidst an already ostracised and misunderstood community brings up so many mixed emotions in me. Many gay men feel or have felt an intense angst of loneliness, guilt and self-loathing when coming to terms with who he is because he was raised to believe that he is 'incorrect'. So on the one hand, I'm saddened that this bottled-up angst manifests itself through self-destructive activity. But on the other hand, I am angry that instead of building a positive and constructive face for the community where we are each others' keepers, there are those that choose to self-destruct, adding fuel for further misunderstanding from the rest of society. So this vicious circle continues.

I once said that I am a happy gay man because I refuse to accept society's irrational doctrine that gay men are warped and twisted (see entry: BB & P'n'P). But I shouldn't blame all of the gay community's problems on the way we are receieved by the rest of the world, especially now we are more widely accepted and welcomed than ever before. After all, we have to accept at least partial responsibility for our actions. But I wonder, what would happen if the blanket of disdain was lifted from us completely? Until then, I only wish I could don some tights and a cape and fly all over the world to protect my brothers from harm.

Karmic Return

What goes around comes around. That's a saying that's been ingrained in us since the budding of our consciousness. I've always thought that's a weird way to teach kids about honesty and generosity because it implies that acts of kindness are motivated by fear of retribution delivered by the rebalancing of the cosmos. But it works. Whatever the motivation for goodwill, as long as goodwill exists, the world is a better place.

I was out shopping for Christmas presents today. I don't care what anyone says, shopping can be exhausting, especially if you're scouring every inch of the city streets on an empty stomach and only two hours of sleep, searching for that perfect gift that holds still the precarious balance between functionality and sentimentality. But of course, it is still a fun experience nonetheless, despite the blow to the hip pocket.

So weary-eyed with tired legs, my friends and I relaxed our feet at a sushi bar to tuck into our dinner for the day. After the splurge, we put everything down, let all the weariness melt away the moment contact was made with our seats and partook in the act of exchanging the daily happenings and gossip of not only the day but the events of the week that has passed. This act of bonding and relaxation is certainly welcoming and blissful enough to make you forget all your world-weary blues.

After re-fuelling, we picked up our bags and were ready to leave. "But what is this?" I thought to myself when I was at the counter paying the bill when a strange fellow tapped me on the shoulder and asked me, "Is this yours?" He handed me my very expensive Prada sunglasses that I had absent-mindedly left at the sushi bar amidst the hubbub of conversation and mirth. I will leave justification for making such an exorbitant purchase on a novelty item for another blog entry. Suffice to say, I would have felt a lampoon shoot through my heart if my little piece of European designer-wear was forever lost in that sea of wasabi and raw fish.

My immediate thought was, "That was incredibly kind of him," a sentiment shared by my friends as well. He could've walked off with my prized sunglasses. But instead he showed some goodwill and empathy for a fellow human being and returned them to me.

Despite the cynicism with which I eye the world, this single act of honesty has somewhat restored a little of my faith that goodness does exist out there, even if it is a rare commodity. Perhaps what I'm feeling is hope. But that's not to say I'm blinded by this kind gesture; I will still lock the front door before I retire at the end of a long but glorious day.

Skin-Crawlers

The first thing we worry about before we leave the house to face the world is how we look. If we look in our bathrooms, there are probably a million appearance-enhancing cosmetics; shampoo, soap, hair gel, razor and so forth. And it's amazing what a blow is served up to our self-confidence when we don't feel we look our best. I know I'm definitely guilty of obsessing over the way I look, grooming and preening trying to look the best I can.

These days, the streets of Melbourne are full of men who look like they've just finished another day on a Vogue photo shoot. And sometimes if can feel like nobody wants to know you unless you look like that. But I think I can hold my own against these mannequins. For those who don't know what I look like, I am definitely not the model type. I don't have washboard abs and rock-hard pecs or the perfect trendy hair style or anything like that. But I'm slim, fashionable to a level commensurate with my income and, I think, attractive enough. So, aside from a few things I would change, I'm generally pretty comfortable with the way I look.

But we all get self-conscious sometimes. The solutions? Attention from complete strangers. Occasionally, when I shuffle through the Melbourne streets in my unobtrusive, space-economising gait, I've seen girls trail off in mid-conversation with their friends and turn their heads to follow my path of movement as I walk past. And once there was this guy at JB's phone section who, just as I walking past, rushed up to me and, with a big smile, asked me if I needed any help (I wasn't even heading in his direction!). Okay, maybe that's a little over the top but when something like that happens, it certainly is a huge confidence booster when you're feeling down.

As comforting as it is to know you're attractive to someone, sometimes the stranger doesn't always conduct themselves in a respectable manner. That's when we enter a grey area. At work, there is this courier who comes to my department every morning. He is probably in his 30s and speaks with a lisp at an almost falsetto pitch; very obviously gay. Of course, I have nothing against gay men, since I'm gay myself. But each time I see him, he jangles my nerves and I shudder involuntarily. What draws this visceral reaction from me? The first time I opened the door for him, he literally looked me up and down, licked his lips and proceeded to salivate profusely while not bothering to pick his jaw off the ground. He then wailed in his jarring high-pitched voice, "Oooohhh, helloooo!"

I feel extremely uncomfortable when subjected to his daily leers and jeers, his eyes scrutinising every minute detail of my body. I thought, "Okay, maybe I'm just being sensitive." After all, I'm not openly gay at work and maybe the presence of another gay man just heightens my paranoia of being outed. But even my friends at work have noticed his disgusting behaviour. If I'm not there when he arrives, he looks around the department, hoping to catch a glimpse of me. Now I have an agreement with my workmates that when the courier arrives, I run off and hide and they would open the door for him.

Unfortunately I may be the mark of something close to sexual harassment. The courier's behaviour isn't so lewd and extreme that it warrants reporting. But I feel like a boundary has been crossed here and it's enough to make me run and duck for cover. So it seems that my daily grooming and upkeeping habits has attracted some unsolicited attention. Nevertheless, I will keep making sure that I look my best. I will not let a perverted individual disrupt a ritual that imbues me with confidence and pride.

On Resilience

Life has ups and down but you don't need a watermelon to tell you that. The variety is a good thing I suppose. But sometimes when you're down, it can feel like the worst moments you've ever experienced. The thought of something so bad happening that it has a permanent, irreparable impact on my life is probably enough to send me into the rescue position with hyperventilating fits because time is something you can't take back. And when something can't be undone, that's something you have to live with for the rest of your life. So I walk around with this mentality where I won't allow myself to make the wrong decisions (even though I still make plenty of them) or do anything wrong in order to minimise any negative impact. Unfortunately, that means I'm extremely guarded and pessimistic. And when something does go wrong, it hits me very hard.

Just as a very facile and small-scale example, I was at work the other night and it was the worst shift I've had since I've been there. I won't go into the details of what I do and what exactly happened but basically, I could get into a lot of trouble if I don't get certain things done. But it was one of those days where absolutely everything that was out of my control went wrong. I knew that I was going to be the mark of some scathing and colourful linguistic missiles, which I really wasn't looking forward to. I was in a constant state of agitation and stress, anticipating the lions pouncing on me and ripping me to shreds. It was like waiting for a death sentence. Even though I really did everything could, lo and behold, towards the end of my shift, the missiles came flying and hit me square bulls-eye right between the eyes. It was, at that moment, the worst few hours I've ever experienced.

But when it was time to leave (and boy, was I happy to leave!), a question sprang to mind: despite having some of the worst few hours in my life, what lasting effect did it really have on me? It got me thinking that maybe sometimes we tend to exaggerate the significance of negative occurrences. That's not to say we do it intentionally to cause drama. While you're experiencing it, the bad times really do feel like you're free-falling down a dark hatchway towards your death. But it occurred to me that maybe people are unaware of the strength and resolve they have and utilise, perhaps subconsciously, to help them fight their way through tough times. Perhaps it's a survival, self-preservation instinct that kicks into action.

I know my example is a superficial and inane one to use to demonstrate the integrity of human resolution and tenacity. But he bottom line is it that humans are, by nature, strong, resilient and driven creatures. And maybe there aren't that many things that we can't get through.

Doppelganger

I think I'm pretty in tune with who I am. In fact, I think most people would say that they're pretty self-aware. After all, you grew up with yourself, experienced everything in your life with yourself and carefully measured and monitored your reaction to every stimuli life threw in your direction. So there is no one who knows you better than you. Now I'm not so arrogant that I won't accept some observations other people might have about me. But sometimes you get people who like to point out things about you that you feel is completely contrary to who you are and then say, "I think I know you better than you do." To me, that has to be one of my top 10 most irritating things anyone could say. But of course no one can ever claim to know everything about anything, including themselves. Nonetheless, each time a self-discovery is made, you can't help but be a little shocked.

Last night, I started chatting to this guy on msn. I had no idea who he was but apparently he's been on my contact list for a month now. We were talking about nothing in particular, just things like past relationships. Turns out he's bisexual. I don't understand bisexuality so I was interested and asked him questions about it. It was a pretty enlightening conversation. But eventually the topic turned to sex. I probably did meet him on a personals site after all. And most of the time, these guys are about sex. Usually, if a guy goes a bit blue on me, I just shut down and tell him I'm not interested in hooking up.

But it wasn't as if he was asking me to hook up with him or anything sleazy like that. We spoke about it as a discussion. I might not be into hooking up but I'm interested in how the whole process works. So he was telling me about how he chats to guys a few times and sees how it turns out. If they get along, then they meet up and take things from there. I never knew that that was how it works. I thought people talk and if there is mutual physical attraction, they meet up and get down to business. But it seems that the reality of hooking up is more like finding someone you can talk to and get along with as a friend with whom you just happen to have sex with. So maybe hooking up isn't the dirty, back-alley affair I envisioned it to be.

He felt he got along with me pretty well so he asked me about the prospect of meeting up with him. But instead of recoiling in horror, I found myself responding to his light innuendo with flirty and open quips. It was like I'd become this completely different person. I'm normally shy and reserved but here I was being witty and extroverted. The strange thing was I didn't even notice I'd taken on this strangely out-going persona until he said, "You don't seem shy to me." Maybe it was the rhythm of the conversation, my curiosity in the sexual habits of other people and the fact that it was an anonymous, online conversation but it was like I was possessed, like a second, darker and personality took over; a shadow slowly seeping in to insinuate its presence. I even thought this could be a possible sexual arrangement; a thought that is completely out of character for me.

Here was a stranger who knew nothing about me, whose approval or disapproval of me is completely inconsequential. Perhaps when there's nothing at stake and no limitations placed upon you, you are free to choose to be whoever you want to be. It seems we never really know the full extent of our capacities until we are put in an unfamiliar situation and certain traits and characteristics emerge to deal with the it. So the question for me is: was I acting when I flirted back or was that really part of who I am underneath all the shyness? I think I know the answer to that.

Houston, Do We Have A Problem?

I'm a painfully shy person when it comes to meeting new people. Unfortunately, that's going to cause all sorts of problems for me. I have only very few friends, all of whom are the best sort of friends anyone in this world could hope for, but nonetheless, very few in number. Just as a yardstick, I have about 20 or so people listed as friends on my Facebook account. Everyone else has at least 60. For most people, this scenario generally would be no cause for concern. After all, how many times have we heard stories of people who are surrounded by an entourage yet still feel achingly lonely? Quality over quantity, as the old adage goes. So from this perspective, I'm doing pretty well.

But the problem for me is that I'm a gay boy amidst a hoard of straighties. I don't feel ostracised or anything like that. I love my friends and, as far as I can tell, my friends love me too. But I can't help but feel none of my friends understand what it means to be a twisty. Of course, they don't think of me as gay so they don't behave as if there is this underlying factor that separates us. But it's hard for them to understand what it's like underneath to know you're different, that the world sees you a certain way. Maybe that's just me focusing on the differences but it's human nature to want to be among people that are like ourselves and be understood. I guess I feel a little out of place sometimes. But a greater concern is that I'll never have the opportunity to find true love if I dont venture out of my circle of (straight) comfort.

About three months ago, with loneliness in the heart and the computer at hand, I decided to sign up for one those personals sites, Gay Matchmaker. Skip three months to the present and nothing much has changed. I put myself out there but I'm still within my circle of comfort. I have not yet managed to make a single gay friend. I've gotten plenty of winks though (I'm hot apparently) but generally not from people who are looking for the same things I am. Sure, I chat to a few guys here and there but our intentions don't seem to coincide. I think I made my intentions pretty clear on my profile. I explicitly stated that I'm looking for people I can get along with on a purely platonic level and if things progress, then great. If not, then we've both gained another friend. So I assume that any wink was sent with the intention of making new friends too. Even with my clearly defined criteria, some ineligible people still apply, perhaps just to try their luck. I guess I should be flattered.

In any case, apart from being painfully shy, I have another factor working against me: I don't understand gay etiquette very well. You can't live a life surrounded by straighties and simultaneously be a social butterfly in the gay world. So I might've made a grievous mistake.

I've been talking to this guy. He winked at me once a long time ago but I rejected him because it looked to me like he just wanted to 'hook-up'. But we somehow got to swapping msn details and began chatting. As he and I chatted, I found him immediately engaging. He seems funny and friendly and complex. When I talk to him, it feels like talking to a real friend, as opposed to an online friend. And I find him endearing. He's like a nice guy who has a few underlying issues, which doesn't bother me. Who doesn't have issues? I once told him he has sad eyes and that seemed to have sent him through the roof. I didn't understand why. I thought his sad eyes looked nice. The point is, he seemed very human.

I thought to myself, "Hey, this is a really great guy that you could probably just hang out with, go to clubs with and explore the gay world with." In other words, a decent guy to be friends with. So I took what would seem like a small step to most but a giant leap to me: I gave him my phone number, not to 'hook up' or with the intention of a relationship or anything heavy like that, but just to talk or sms and see what happens from there. After all, there's only a certain distance online chatting can take you and my objective was to get to know real people, not digital words on a screen.

I don't really know what's going to happen from here. I've seen him online twice since but he didn't send me any messages on both occasions. And I'm a little ambivalent about sending him one. Maybe he thinks I came on too strong and is now running the other direction. Have I violated some rule in the book of gay etiquette? He knows I write this blog but he might not read it if giving him my number has caused problems. In any case, if he doesn't talk to me the next time I'm online, I guess I'm going to have to take another giant leap and be the one to initiate the dialogue.

Self-Discovery Blues

I wouldn't exactly call my life busy. I work part-time and study here and there, hang out with friends every now and then, nothing the average guy can't handle. That's me, just an average guy. In fact, I think my life is a little insipid so I tend to take things on just to give some variety to my day. For example, I read a tonne of books (my to-read pile is now taller than me), I'm an avid shopper (my credit card is heat-warped) and I play the piano, just to name a few things. And of course, I've started up this blog.

I'm a prospective medical student and assuming all goes well and I finally decide to stick to medicine (but that's a story for another blog entry), I think the way my mind works is very suitable to becoming a doctor. I've heard stories of medical school where your life is pretty much engulfed by it. You have to live it, breath it, dream it because there's such a huge volume of information that needs to become second nature. I know I definitely have the capacity to absorb all that information because I've always been the type that tends to focus on a unified subject and master it rather than having a scattered knowledge of disparate matters.

But aside from medicine, I'm also an avid music lover. Now when I say music, I mean pretty serious music: Beethoven, Chopin, Liszt and so forth. And so it came to no surprise, to me at least, that when I first laid my hands down on those black and white keys at 19, they just made sense to me. So now I can the piano. The only problem with me is that I do everything instinctively. That's not always a good thing because there's no progressive development and honing of skills and technique. After 6 years of frustratingly clumsy finger work, I finally got around to attending my first piano lesson last week.

But to my horror, my piano teacher thought I was pretty good. She then gave me 5 eighth-grade level pieces to learn in a week. Now I know I'm alright at the piano but I'm nowhere near talented enough to learn 5 any-grade pieces in a week. So in my flurry of sudden musical obligation, I've been slaving away at the keys, trying to master the music the best I can. As a result, any attempts at writing a blog entry - and I do have a lot of things I want to write about - have been thwarted. Instead of thoughts of words and sentences, everything I want to say is transmuted into a mental slurry of treble clefs, key signatures and pedal indications.

Amidst my concerns about my retarded writing, it occurred to me that I just made an interesting self-discovery: I'm a uni-tasker. I've always dreamed of being a Renaissance man so it pains me deeply to admit it but I think that's what I am, a uni-tasker. Faced with such a devastating revelation, I lowered my head in shame and wallowed in the despair caused by my inability to multi-task.

But here I am writing an entry. It's not a great entry but the words started to come to me because I picked up my copy of Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray and lo and behold, the words are flowing, albeit stunted and clumsy. It seems that my mind is elastic: it tends to activate certain abilities according to what I'm focusing my attention on at a given moment. If I continue reading, maybe my mind will recognise that I'm in literature-mode and my writing will pick up again. And that's how I made the second interesting self-discovery: I'm adaptive. I'm cheerful again. I may not be able to do many things at once but I'm able to do many things given the right head-space. Now, I can lift my head up high and poignantly and romantically whisper to myself, "I'm capable. . ."

I'm sitting next to my piano as I write this. I'm a little scared to touch the keys because, having written this, I may have negated 3 days worth of work tortuously trying to elucidate the structural complexities of the two Beethoven sonatas I've been trying to master. I feel my fingers stumbling already.

BB & P'n'P

I've always been gay. Now I'm not going to make the argument that people are born gay or whatever. It's just a pure fact that I've never been attracted to girls. In any case, it took me a while to accept who I am. And in the process of doing so, I've slowly dipped my toes in gay culture to see what it's all about. I don't particularly adhere to the gay stereotype or go clubbing every week but I have learnt that the gay scene is this entire sub-culture, a world within itself with its own etiquette, rules and language.

Not being a scene-guy, all my friends are straight so my contact with the gay world has largely been in the form of visiting sites like Gay Matchmaker and the like. As I was perusing the profiles, I was bombarded with all these acronyms and terms that were like secret codes within an exclusive society. For example GWM means gay white man, Poz and Neg means HIV+/- guys respectively and I've learnt recently that BB means bareback and P'n'P means party and play.

For those who aren't gay, bareback means to have anal sex without protection and party and play means to get hammered on drugs and then screw your brains out. I've seen profiles on personals sites that say, "Looking for BB and P'n'P sessions." Excuse me for sounding like a prude but aren't those extremely dangerous activities? The gay community is plastered with advertisements that expound the importance of safe sex to reduce transmission of HIV and other STIs. Why are there guys out there willing to put their life on the line for a night of 'fun'? It's not just the health implications of STIs that scare me to death. I've read stories of lives completely ravaged by disease; people abandoned by their partners, people losing their career trajectories due to illness, living in poverty and squalor, relying on government and the AIDS Trust's assistance and the like. All of which could have been prevented by a little rubber device.

To me, partaking in such risky activities indicates an underlying self-destructive streak. The concept of the self-hating faggot isn't one too difficult to grasp. Our society doesn't look too kindly upon my kind. We are the subject of constant ridicule and subtle but pervasive attack. You only need to look at the commercial success shows like Queer Eye or movies like Chuck and Larry (with Adam Sandler) to see that we're seen as these ineffective, useless anomalies. And that's how society likes us. When put in this context, it begins to make sense.

But more destructive perhaps is that, living in a society built on Christian values, each generation is indoctrinated with homophobia. And stories of the internal conflict inside a kid who happens to be homosexual is all too common these days. A particularly painful childhood memory of mine is any argument between my brother and I would inevitably end with him invalidating my very being with the expletive 'fucking faggot cunt'. And God hates fags apparently. To this day, we don't talk. I did a lot of self-destructive things back in those days and I remember spending my teenage years lying in bed, wishing I would die in my sleep so I wouldn't have to spend another day as a faggot.

But I never understood how love between two people, regardless of being the same sex, is seen as a sin on par with murder. Or how discrimination, ridicule and violence against gay people is seen as acceptable or even laudible practices. And I still don't understand. Today, I'm a happy gay man because I refuse to accept this irrational doctrine. It's the world that's warped and twisted, not me. And I will not live by its standards.

Fortunately I learnt to shed my self-destructive streak in my teens. Otherwise, I could've been a guy that posts 'ISO BB and P'n'P sessions' on my profile. I hope the world will come to its senses and sees what it's preaching doesn't make any sense. In the meantime, I will continue to contribute to the AIDS Trust to help my gay brothers who were not as fortunate as me.

Lovelorn Blues

So anyway, I'm a single guy. And like other single guys I think, "Why on earth would anyone want to be chained to another person?" Now I'm not one of those guys that jumps aboard anything that comes my way. What I love is that I'm not accountable to anyone. Being single, as I see it, is a blessing and I certainly I cherish and enjoy it immensely. I see it as being wild and free to cavort in the bucolic spendour of Singledom, being able to sniff all the wild flowers and roll freely in the meadows like a child, laughing and breathing deep the liberating fresh air of my independence.

And enjoyed it I have, that is, until I look around and see what's happening around me. These days the people around me are pairing off one by one. What used to be weekly weekend outings have slowly become fortnightly then monthly then whenever they can be bothered. But more disconcerting than the waning companionship of friends is the fact that Singledom is beginning to lose it's sheen, the grass is becoming a little browner and the air a little dirtier. Now that I've had a glimpse of Coupledom, it seems the once pristine landscape of the Land of the Singles I once found so beautiful and arresting is starting to look a little barren and lifeless because in the Land, there is no other soul except me.

I have two very close friends who happen to be a couple and from what I can see from their relationship, you have to explain every detail of any plans that doesn't involve the other party, justify money spent on a spree, be home at a certain time, worry if the other has eaten dinner, things like that. Okay, so it doesn't exactly sound like a horror story but it would certainly be a huge adjustment to have to accomodate the presence, habits and personality of a separate entity in your life. Why would anyone put themselves through that?

But I also see that they have someone to kiss whenever they want, someone to mull over thoughts and ideas with, someone to hold when it's cold, little romantic things like that (which I'm a complete sucker for). A wise friend once told me that the ultimate human truth is that we all seek to be understood. Romantic gestures aside, perhaps a relationship offers the means to be understood at such a deep and penetrating level that isn't possible with any other kind of human interaction. Maybe that's why I'm ovecome with this aching melancholic loneliness when I see my coupled-off friends hold hands then argue then hold hands again. They have another person who accepts their flaws and bad habits but also basks in their presence. In other words, someone to understand them. I'm starting to believe that wise friend of mine.

As with all things in life, we have to take the good with the bad. It's all about balance. But I'm starting to feel that the good in having a relationship tips the scale so far that it render the effects of the bad negligible. Do I have an all-too romantic view on the whole concept? Probably. In any case, it's time for me to log into Gay Matchmaker.

The Story of My Hero

He looks alluringly into the camera lens with those arresting brown eyes, his gaze both humble and poised. His hair is cut short and his eyebrows are a little arched so that while his stare is one of boyish, quiet coyness, his tentative grin causes his eyebrows to raise ever slightly so that his eyes reveal a shade of cheekiness and sex; a paradox that creates a delectable tension that accentuates his charisma. A click is heard and a moment of the legendary icon's existence is immortalised. He is Tom Ford. His mother taught him that to be badly dressed is an act of disrespect to others. And this is certainly a lesson he has learnt well. He is immaculately groomed with a precisely sculpted muzzle that seems to be a permanent fixture of his ruggedly handsome visage. He drapes his body with only the finest fabrics, creating textures that immediately command attention, and contrasting colours to create a refined and understated declaration of individuality and personal identity. His shirt is, as usual, unbuttoned at the chest and a light patchwork of dark hair atop a bronze, sun-kissed landscape is displayed; a glimpse of the man underneath the luxury.

However, despite his flawless appearance, one would be grievously mistaken if one assumes that Ford is a man of pure style and no substance. He is one of those rare creatures that has the Midas touch. A man that works on immense natural intelligence and instinct, he masters every craft that he chooses to learn. Everything he lays his large, manicured hands on becomes a success. He began by studying art history at New York University and was also trained as an actor. But after his first year at university, he abandoned art history to study interior architecture at New York's Parsons School of Design. After his studies, he decided to move into fashion design and the golden opportunity came when he was hired as a designer for Gucci in 1990, a time when the giant fashion label was on the brink of bankruptcy. "We didn't even have a photocopier at one stage," reminisces Ford. "We didn't have any paper." In 1994, Ford was appointed creative director, giving him complete creative control over all of Gucci's product lines. He was also responsible for the company's image, advertising and marketing campaigns (including the controversial advertisement where the pubic hair of the female model was shaped into the letter G), even the designs for the Gucci stores. And it was his input and perseverance that brought the doomed fashion house from near-liquidation to the value of $4.3 billion.

In 2000, after its rejuvenation by Ford's hands, Gucci bought a controlling stake in Yves Saint-Laurent, where Ford was appointed creative and communications director of the house's ready-to-wear business, while continuing to design for Gucci - a daunting challenge, no doubt, because he had to design for two giant labels while maintaining each brand's individual flair. "Historically, [Gucci] is Sophia Loren. Yves Saint Laurent is Catherine Deneuve. They're both sexy," he told British Vogue in February 2001. But he conquered the task with aplomb. His visionary look of the fashion industry had already won him many coveted awards. In 1996 he won the Council of Fashion Designers of America (CFDA), Fashion Editors Club (FEC) Japan International Designer of the Year awards and Menswear and Womens wear Designer of the Year for Gucci at the VH1/Vogue Fashion Awards.

Each Gucci and Yves Saint-Laurent show with Ford at the helm left critics speechless with suspended breath. His collections incorporate homages to the classic elements of timelessless, simplicity and class but Ford injects his own imprint of sex and daring into this foundation, where the raison d'etre of his designs was to explore of different ways to wrap the body to make it more beautiful. His first collection for Yves Saint-Laurent, a beautiful study in black and white, earned him many awards including Womenswear Designer of the Year for Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche from the CFDA again, Best Designer of the Year for Gucci and Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche from the FEC again, Best Fashion Designer from TIME Magazine and GQ Designer of the Year. Further to these decorations, TIME magazine named him the Best American Designer. His legendary status is one very well-earned indeed.

Now, having left both Gucci (his departure caused TIME magazine to exclaim, "Is this the end of fashion?") and Yves Saint-Laurent, Ford is building his eponymous empire, beginning with menswear. The fundamental concept of his line is to bring ready-to-wear designs closer to the elements of haute-couture to create pieces that epitomise pure luxury and extravagance.

To what does Ford attribute his extraordinary success? He sleeps for just two or three hours each night and keeps post-it notes on the bedside table in case he experiences sudden flashes of inspiration after his ephemeral slumber. "There are many more talented designers than me," says Ford. "But I have a lot of drive and won't let it go."

Growing Pains Blues

When I was a kid, a friend asked me, "If you can stay one age for the rest of your life, how old would you be?" We called it the magic age. Mine was 23. When I was 23, I thought to myself, "I'll worry about stuff later." I thought that when the magic was over, I'd miraculously transform into a productive member of society who reads the paper and drinks coffee every morning (thus leaving a trail of blood in my wake). My magic age has now zoomed off into the horizon and despite being one year (going on two) past 23, nothing much has changed. I still have my caution-to-the-wind attitude towards everything, dancing through the days like I still have a million tomorrows tucked neatly under my belt.

I've always thought that the people I grew up with shared the same sentiments as me, that we'll keep drinking until dawn then spend all Saturday morning watching cartoons and video clips. But recently I've noticed that things are starting to change. All around me, friends have settled into professional jobs (IT consultants, nurses, financial strategists and the like), buying properties, building investment portfolios and, after loosening their ties or swapping Manolo's for slippers at the end of a long day, settling down into the arms of that special someone. You know, stuff grown-ups do.

Inevitably, when such a gaping discrepancy so rudely injects itself between you and the people around you, you can't help but start wondering about the direction your life is taking. You see, I don't understand what it means to be grown-up. I know that people graduate, find a job, find a partner and so forth. But I wonder, how does a person go through these steps and not realise that their life is slipping away? As the days pass, is there a shift in mental state whereby you migrate slowly along the spectrum from kid to adult? It seems like everyone has this ingenious device that detects the amount of time passed since birth and adjusts one's state of mind accordingly so that the one behaves in a manner commensurate with one's age bracket.

If that's the case, I don't think I was born with that device. I've always been resistant to growing up. I had to be dragged kicking and screaming into VicRoads to get my Ls (at 18). Graduation was probably the most traumatic day of my life. And even though it's high time I get myself into a 'proper' job, the thought of wearing a shirt and tie to work every day is one of my worst nightmares. So it seems that any time I see a flag marking a milestone approaching, I lose all control and let out this primal howl, desperately trying to claw my way back to whence I came. Don't get me wrong, I do want all of those grown-up things. After all, I want to have secure future with a good job, a nice house and a special someone to call my own and all that, just like everyone else. But my viscera seems to fight tooth and nail against achieving anything that resembles a hallmark of moving into the adult world. And so I'm left stranded in this state of (to modify a quote from the great philosopher Spears) Not-A-Boy-Not-Yet-A-Man.

Am I the only one that finds growing up so difficult?

I'm a Watermelon

So anyway, we all feel a little isolated and disconnected at times rights? Okay, so mulling things over with a few friends over some coffee or sparkling mineral water (for those who suffer, as I do, from the strange affliction where coffee induces paroxysms of epistaxis) can be good way to attenuate the numbing anaesthetic of separation. But one finds that a friend's patience can wear very thin when faced will a fusillade of confused thoughts from a mind as confused as the one I so unfortunately possess.

So here I am, looking to connect. Somewhere in the world, there must be people who, like me, are looking to connect. And perhaps there's no better means of seeking out a possible connection than splaying yourself underneath the spotlight for the whole wide world to see or read for that matter.

So this is me, partaking in the paradoxical act of publishing one's inner thoughts for the world to scrutinise, smell, savour and then spit or swallow as it sees fit.