naked and the rain

“My heart sits on the sideline while my mind plays the game.”

 

Ever felt naked?

Not like, ‘oops-I-forgot-to-put-my-underwear-on’ naked but the real ‘holy-fuck-people-can-see-right-through-me’ naked…

In my past experience (which is a whole like 18 years worth) I’ve never felt truly naked, I’ve always had one layer of protection on at least, and those who have made me feel naked were probably quickly removed from my life.

I’m a protective sort of person, apparently even my sleeping position says so, besides the way my body contorts while I’m dreaming unmentionable things, I know I’m protective because it’s how I’ve grown up.

I visited home yesterday, my first day back in two weeks (pathetic, I know, but I didn’t have enough room for my guitar on the first trip) and already that place that I had called home was more of a house again. Sure, nothing much had changed (I lie, a fair bit had changed) but even though my furniture hasn’t been moved within the last three years and I’m pretty sure the dints on the wall will never be fixed, it wasn’t my room anymore. There wasn’t any me in the house. There was nothing to stake a claim there, and I didn’t know how to deal with that.

I’d lost my home just with the simple point of moving away to go to Uni, and the thing that annoyed me was that nobody had told me how much it sucks to feel as though your life has been lifted up off the ground and is floating somewhere in the atmosphere. I miss the ground, I don’t trip so much.

Still, I guess there is a sort of happiness attached to my new room, even if I can’t dance in it like a spaz. All my stuff is here, even my name scrawled on the wall (Arscott forgive me) and in time this place may become a home but currently I’m without port.

I don’t think I ever expected to feel this way, I’m fairly good at adapting so to find that I hadn’t actually adapted, was un-nerving. I don’t really know what to do with myself so I’m writing here, and I will probably spend the whole night writing and ignoring the raging party that’ll be engulfing the courtyard.

So to summarise:

Home isn’t home and Uni is just that… Uni.

You never know though, all my dreams may come true and I’ll be out of here quicker than you can say ‘home’.

– Cal.

The marks, are they there?

Rough against the smooth lines…

Brush over them, a story to read.

Can you read the marks?

just to be sure

“If I could change the world; mould it to my own design, then I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be the world anymore. What it is and what I want it to be are two very separate ideas and they can never be truly one.”

 

I feel like a liar.

Not to say that I’ve been lieing, but I have been compromising who I am.

I spent majority of the past two years alone and I never realised the affect that it had on me. I never saw myself through everyone else’s eyes.

I’m narcissistic and self-righteous, I want what I want when I want it and I’m boisterous enough to tell people that. I’m cold-hearted, I lack empathy or sympathy and I’m pretty sure my own mind works against me when I feel sad. I have little or no belief in anything or anyone. I’m paranoid and I believe it’s survival of the fittest by any means necessary.

I’m not sure if these are natural attributes that have just become recognisable over time but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t this blinded before my isolation.

In my time alone, when I worked and I studied and I did anything I could to get ahead and prove everybody wrong, I forgot what it was that I really wanted to do it. I’d forgotten what I had spent my whole life  doing, and that was telling stories.

Take it from me, someone who can blatantly with a smile on their face, stories are my forte. They twist and wind around my mind with barely decipherable plots that boggle even myself sometimes, but those are the stories that have grown over years of observation.

I’d forgotten in my haste to prove myself to others that I am just one person and that others will not always bend to my will. I can ask them, persuade them or even try to blackmail them, but whatever it comes down to I know that this, in itself, was my world that I was trying to pull others into.

Strong-willed and emotionally decrepit is who I am now, and I’m not so sure that I can find my way back to who I used to be.

I want to be the brave person I always thought I was. I want to fight the battles of the world the way I always have: with words and pictures and sound.

I want to prove to myself that I still know who I am, that the things that used to always matter to me, still do. I want to prove that my heart isn’t as cold as it’s sometimes percieved to be. I want to prove that I’m human, and that I feel that way too.

I’m confused and wondering how on earth I got here.

I love who I love.

I write what I write.

I am who I am.

I can’t change this but I can change my perception of the world I live in. I can fight oppression and I can bring people to their knees in a way that doesn’t leave my morals to suffer.

I am strong and I am brave.

I am an 18-year-old Media Arts student from the University of Canberra. I sometimes lock myself out of my room and I always find myself flustered in attractive company. I like women but have a certain soft spot for attractive, polite men. I am feminine and I can still appear that way even when sweaty and bruised from learning MMA. I am genderqueer and I’m learning to accept it, no matter what it takes.

I am who I am, and just to be sure, I’m going to check myself in the mirror.

This blog doesn’t say much to you, probably, but it says a lot to me. My own personal review of the way my life twists and turns without my direction from myself. I hope I don’t bore people because I know that sometimes, I even bore myself.

Confused and cornered but a little bit more graceful in defeat…

– Cal.

 

Tip toe-ing softly, nobody can hear

Crouched and waiting…

Are you watching me?

Watching me, watching you…

Hidden but sure.

Just to be sure.

you dont have to

“Could you imagine your life any better? Yeah, I could too.”

My mother: You know, you don’t have to have short hair to be gay.

This was a breakthrough point for my relationship with my mother. I’d been cutting my hair short for about 5 months now, give or take a week, and all I had recieved in return for my stylish new cuts was: “You looked pretty with long hair.”

So does that random snippet of conversation mean that it’s finally alright for me to be gay in her eyes? Does it finally mean that she’s stopped trying to tell me to ‘give the nice boys a chance’.

I’m not sure. I don’t know. It’s all a little too confusing for me currently.

But being at Uni now, this hair that I have, these markers that I portray to the world, they are now my world.

I’m not sure what people think when they first see me. Maybe it’s ‘Oh, she’s gay’ or maybe it’s ‘Oh, she’s one of those crazy, punk girls’. I just don’t know, so being able to look the way I do makes me feel more confident with my sexuality and gender for some reason. I can’t understand why it does but it reminds me that I am what I am and just because people don’t know it or recognise it, it doesn’t devalue it in anyway.

Another problem I’m finding is meeting other LGBT folk. Personally, I think we should all wear signs on our head. But then again, some people might actually have gaydar compared to me who has… none.

I always thought when I moved I wouldn’t feel so cut off from the world but right now, this is the most cut-off I’ve ever felt. I want to meet people like me, I want people to accept if they aren’t like me and I want people to know who I am but I can’t exactly shout it from the rooftops, now can I?

A little lost and confused but at least I’ve got all my subjects chosen, now I just have to pay for the first semester, my books and all the software I need. I’m anticipating a $5 000 drop in my savings account but oh well, hopefully this will turn out to be worthwhile, and if not…

– Cal.

not quite sure

“Dear blog,

Today I had the most absolutete worst, completely disgusting and degrading day of my life. If all start with the fact that I forgot to wear underwear, which is actually a more common occurence than you think, but truthfully, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was I got caught, and by the neighbours dog no less, but that isn’t the problem. The problem was…”

“Dear bloggee,

I am a piece of paper who, quite frankly, doesn’t give on ounce of brain space to your pathetic ramblings. If you could please cease and desist with all forms of communication I would be quite obliged to take you off my ‘eraser’ list.

P.S. Your teddy bear is the one who’s been stealing your bras.”

 

Why can’t inanimate objects talk to us?

I swear it would make life alot easier, and also save me from attempting to move the relatively large furniture around my relatively small dorm room. But no, furniture and all manner of inanimate objects were excluded from the communication list.

What am I rambling on about? I don’t really know, it’s just easier to let out my frustration this way instead of slapping a few dorm member across the face because they insist that the blonde is their natural colour even though their eyebrows and all manner of body hair beg to differ.

Anyway, aside from my own random ramblings I’m just… I’m not quite sure.

I’m in a city, going to pubs and clubs and I still feel so out of touch with the world.

All I want to do is find someone else who is gay or queer or whatever they like to be called. I just want to find someone who understands my perspective, but it’s proving harder than I thought possible.

So instead of actually doing something worthwhile, like I don’t know, sleeping perhaps, I have decided that now is the perfect time to write you all a little recount of my past weekend.

It started like this:

Friday 29th: Birthday; I spend the day avoiding certain people, making horrendous phonecalls and generally being a nuisance around my hometown. (That of course included going around the the grand total of five pubs in town and hustling.)

Saturday 30th: Post-Birthday and ‘why-on-earth-did-I-do-that-last-night?’ day; travelled to Canberra and visited family while continuing to make a nuisance of myself, even getting hit on by several very drunk 40-odd men.

Sunday 31st: Last day of January and my ‘officially-an-adult’ day; unpacked and moved very slowly into my dorm room all the while attempting to make as little eye contact as possible. I’m not entirely good at being social but I think I made a fair impression as well as somehow finding people to call “friends”.

Monday 1st: Technically not a weekend day; floundered around my room in the early morning because the lights are so damn bright, had a shower in the shower which had very bad water pressure and then I managed to stumble into the food hall and grab an apple for breakfast. After that I ventured to a waterpark where I splashed around, got sunburnt and shocked people with my lack of swimming attire (I lost my bikini top going down a slide, HUZZAH!). Spent the afternoon setting up my internet and shopping for necessary food before returning for dinner and then partying it up with the old ressies.

Overall I think I’ve made a good impression but god knows what anybody else thinks.

I’m overtired, hungry and have someone else’s underarm sweat on my shirt so I think that means it’s time to go to bed.

So night-night people reading this. I’ll update when I have something to update.

– Cal.

IQ and the funny smart business

IQ and the idea of a genius.

A month ago I took a formal IQ test, wondering of course, if I could join Mensa.

I received the results from this IQ test today.

It stated that I had an overall IQ of 136.

Now, I had no idea how IQs were rated so I decided to do a little research, like I always seem to be doing.

This is what I’ve found:

“Lewis Terman (1916) developed the original notion of IQ and proposed this scale for classifying IQ scores:

• Over 140 – Genius or near genius
• 120 – 140 – Very superior intelligence
• 110 – 119 – Superior intelligence
• 90 – 109 – Normal or average intelligence
• 80 – 89 – Dullness
• 70 – 79 – Borderline deficiency
• Under 70 – Definite feeble-mindedness

Genius IQ is generally considered to begin around 140 to 145, representing ~.25% of the population (1 in 400).  Here’s a rough guide:

• 115-124 – Above average (e.g., university students)
• 125-134 – Gifted (e.g., post-graduate students)
• 135-144 – Highly gifted (e.g., intellectuals)
• 145-154 – Genius (e.g., professors)
• 155-164 – Genius (e.g., Nobel Prize winners)
• 165-179 – High genius
• 180-200 – Highest genius
• >200 – ‘Unmeasurable genius'”

Now considering they stated that my IQ was 136, that would deem me to have “very superior intelligence” or “highly gifted (e.g., intellectuals)” but for some reason I don’t believe it.

I know I’ve got something about me, but I always thought more on my creativity and charisma than on my apparent ‘smarts’.

It’s a stupid, not-really-in-my-right-mind-post but for some reason the number 136 is now very unsettling.

– Cal.

P.S. Wondering where those numbers came from? Look here:
http://wilderdom.com/intelligence/IQWhatScoresMean.html

luggage and hearts and rings on my fingers

“I don’t have to worry about emotional baggage I can sell it on eBay.”

Luggage…

Of the packing variety. Almost there.

And hearts…

Why is it exes always show up out of the blue without a comprehensible reason for re-entering your life?

And rings on my fingers…

The favourite ring that I found under my old wardrobe. Heaven forbid how it came to be there.

But basically this:

1. I treated myself to a new haircut, facial, pedicure, manicure, waxing and massage yesterday.

2. I pretended to pack, all the while crawling into places made for a far smaller person than me, of course with the added benefit of finding forgotten or presumed lost jewellery.

3. I poked fun at my own inability to be coherent when answering the phone. Communication is not one of my strong points.

4. I found out that the local supermarket sells sugar cubes. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard of this before.

5. I spent too much of the afternoon attempting to cook, considering I’ve decided that holding a dinner party is the exact need-to-do for an eighteenth birthday.

6. I taste-tested my own horrible cooking and am now feeling sick, thus deciding that sugar cubes would fix that problem.

7. It’s one-hour away from  a couple dozen friends, family and frenemies entering this place I call a home and berating me about the lack of productive activity in my day.

8. I’ve now decided it’s a good thing that I can’t cook. It might shut them up.

9. I’ve also decided that now is the perfect time to write a new bloggy up considering I’ve recently drenched myself in cold water (who knew you needed to replace old water heating systems?!), attempted to find an outfit that won’t raise eyebrows, added way too much product to my now short and spiky ink of a haircut and even found I now lack the ability to apply make-up without it going everywhere on my face.

So here I sit, looking a bit like a clown and wondering why-oh-why my smile is lopsided. (Damn you webcam!) I’m also considering how completely empty the house now looks without majority of my junk everywhere. I can even see the carpet, not that I knew I had carpet…

I’ve also come around to the fact that no matter how much distance I put between myself and my past, there’s always going to be some annoying person willing to spoil the illusion.

So… annoyingly rambling as usual, but that’s what you get for actually reading my horrendous writing. You get squabble. Not intelligent squabble either.

– Cal.

hoarding and gender anxiety

“Performing music is like sex. Hot, passionate and sometimes you get so sweaty it looks like you’ve taken a shower on stage. Either way, they’re always screaming your name.”

I need someone to come and throw all of my junk out.

I’m a hoarder. I always knew this but now it’s just so obvious.

I was packing today (finally getting somewhere) and I’ve only packed one third of my stuff and I’ve already filled my car. And even though I try to throw things away, I really do, they just keep finding their way back into the ‘must-have’ pile. I’m far too attached I think.

Besides my obvious failure at any type of readiness for life I’ve spent the morning reading erotic stories, editing my own novel (which is infuriating me slightly) and feeling slightly sick at my gender today.

For once in a long time I feel without a gender today.

And for some reason it’s screwing with my head a bit. Maybe it’s added pressure from my parents to get ready, or the anxiety seeing my extended family and their horrible homophobic ideals, or it could even be the fact that I’m going swimming again, for the first time in years.

I don’t really know, I just feel… out of it today.

I want to clearly grab onto something today but it’s out of reach, and it’s annoying me.

I put on make-up, then I take it off.

I style my hair, then I rough it up.

I put on clothes, then I take them off again.

Thank goodness swimming only needs a bathing suit otherwise I wouldn’t be going anywhere today.

I’m just running today. The typical Cal signature of, ‘ Oh fuck, this is too much for my brain to handle so I’m going to go running full pelt down the street, fall over something and get laughed at.’

I haven’t run from anything in awhile, in fact the last time was the day before my graduation last year and I ended up a five hour drive away from home with a major headache. Today I’d take that headache over anything else.

I’m feeling a bit asexual today as well. I can look a hetero porn and get nothing, then I can read man-to-man porn and get nothing, trans-porn is nothing, queer dyke porn is nothing… It’s just all nothing today.

It’s a bit hard to explain, even to myself and I’m sure that I’m completely non-coherent but at least that’s gotten a little bit off my chest.

I’ll update tomorrow, after I get my hair and a facial.

Until then, goodbye.

– Cal.

packing pegs and that damn thing called an orgasm

“If I praise you then I can swear whole-heartedly it was by accident. If I insult you though, be well assured it was all done with premeditation.”

Isn’t it amazing when…

You’re only five days away from moving out of your home (yet again) and you’ve only packed pegs. But still, I guess I’ll be able to hang my laundry… That’s of course if I had any.

Yes, the dastardly days of packing and squishing and attempting to make that huge amount of clothes fit into a suitcase that was never meant to hold that much in the first place. The week has arrived and as usual I’m horribly behind schedule.

But besides the fact the only thing I’ll be taking to Uni is pegs, I spent majority of my morning showed in contemplation over orgasms and the variety that I’ve experienced in my life.

Now, being one of those few people who orgasm quite regularly and easily, sometimes it even taking me by surprise, I sometimes forget that others aren’t so easy in the sack. So, while sitting on the shower floor wondering why on earth I had yet to fix the leaking shower head I thought about how I would classify my orgasmic experiences.

I’ve come up with three:

Orgasm A: clitoris, G-spot, penetration… The whole deal here, not saying that I need all at the same time to reach climax (considering that my arms are not that long, neither are my fingers sadly) but these are the three main things that result in one of those ‘oh-my-god-i-can-see-the-light’ orgasms. You know them, the ones that make it feel as though your lungs had de-compressed and that your muscles might snap under the pressure. Now, being the egotistical person that I am (even in the bed, sorry to say) I practiced and practiced this orgasm until well, I eventually got sick of it at some point. Currently, (my lovely boasting) I can have six consecutive A orgasms. I haven’t reached any further because, to be truthful, it made me too damn tired.

Orgasm B: also known to me as the pressure orgasm… This is a preparation orgasm, or one that you just squeeze in between you’ve spent the better half of the morning watching pornography and had forgotten you were meant to be out at lunch 15 minutes ago. This orgasm is quick and easy, well for me. Considering research that the clitoris, while seeming small and very localized for some, is actually about 16 to 17 centimeters long in the average woman. Now that is a lot of pleasure that can be taken use of right there. Of course the G-spot is located along the clitoris, and further up into the vagina to if I’m correct but what the pressure orgasm is, is that it focuses on a small length of the clitoris between what we formally know as the ‘clitoris’ and the ‘G-spot’. And then it’s simple. No movement, just pressure, and lots of it. Using anything I, or you like, usually. It takes only a minute as it has the same effect as Orgasm A but is a bit ‘duller’ I guess you could say. Still works to get you prepped and ready to go though.

Orgasm C: also known as the ‘look-no-hands’ orgasm… This is in fact one orgasm that I can have just reading an article on sex. It’s quicker, a bit longer lasting, even if the climax isn’t all that appreciative of the effort my brain has put in to supply the necessary pictures. I usually barely notice this nowadays, not to say I don’t enjoy it or I’ve become so used to it then I won’t ride it out for as long as possible, it’s just that I’ve been having these for three years without any stimulation of a body part; besides the brain. I’ve only ever met a few others who can have an orgasm like this, but I feel sorry for those who can’t. Some people really miss out on all the fun.

I might also add in a side-note here for all those who love a good bum-waggling femme. Apparently the most a woman wriggles her bum or ‘shimmies’ when she walks, the stronger her orgasm will be. I guess this has to do with the muscles and how we use them, so get bum-waggling.

Now, enough of my orgasm talking-mind… I also just noticed that I’ve already written 700-off words. Funny how it’s so easy to write when you’ve really got nothing interesting to say.

So, what else do I have to say?

Save me, is one thing, and save her, is another. Neither of which make any sense even though in the horror movie I was watching last night, it make all the sense in the world. Maybe I need to a hire a guy running around with a chainsaw to motive this kind of logical screaming.

That’s my little insight into the strange workings of my mind, today. Hope you enjoyed and stay tuned for more runaway-through action tomorrow.

– Cal.

writing it all down

“If I could write down every word in my head it would be quite a contradictory story.”

Writing things in a blog always makes them come out so much smoother, well, that’s what I’ve found anyway.

Not much to say today.

Researching environmentalism and it’s link to the LGBT community. Why, you may ask? Top secret stuff.

Okay, not really top secret but I’ve been reading too much information on Uganda’s new Anti-Homosexualist Bill to care enough to actually tell you all.

Maybe tomorrow?

I’ve got too many ideas swirling around in my head, and none of them make much sense.

So, to summarize my day so far:

Checked e-mails.

Researched.

Checked e-mails again.

Researched again.

Eventually found enough edible food to qualify it as a meal.

Ate said edible food.

Researched again.

Threw out old clothing. (This caused a sliver of water to run down my cheek though I’m sure I can blame it on a non-existent cold if I’m ever asked.)

Blogged. Blogging… Writing this damn blog.

Writing it all down, as the title states.

I’ll update tomorrow and continue on with my crazy mind adventures.

– Cal.

Tipped and toed.

“Higher, you must be taller.”

Pushing, straightening; legs surely breaking…

“Stay and be firm.”

Staying, falling and breaking.

Too tipped on my toes.

double post: nudity and fear

“I have a funny feeling that Santa Claus is behind this.”

It’s a double post today. Why? Because I’ve got so much to say and so little time.

Okay, so yesterday, as I was avoiding the cover letter I had to write for a scholarship fund I somehow decided it would be a good idea to go through my old computer and have a look what’s on there.

Oh and behold, what did I find?

Pictures. Of me. Nude.

It seems my fascination with sexuality, gender and nudity goes back further than I can remember. Not to mention the need to express all my ideas in photographic from.

In my stumbling I found three hidden folders, each containing a photographic series in which I’m nude. Now if the time stamp on these such folders is correct then the first series, titled: Sex with Light was taken when I was 14 and I believe that it was also a joint project with a fellow photographer friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in years.

The second series was: Bare the Truth and was taken when I was 15. It displays me and four of my friends either nude of partially nude with different drawn versions of the sign ‘Bare the Truth’ as it were.

The third series, and probably the most dastardly for someone of the age 15 was… Erotic Language. Yikes! What on earth was I thinking at young, clean age 15?!

Then I realized that I’d  been watching porn since I was 13 so it didn’t really matter that somewhere in my fifteen year old mind I found it alright to pose erotically using the aid of sign language to actually point out the differences of male and female sexual culture.

But, that was then and this is now. I like to think I’ve gotten a bit more subtle. Apparently not. You see, looking back I can tell that majority of those messages I was trying to send, they’re about all the same things that I’m currently fighting for.

I had thought I’d evolved (and sure my technical photographic skills have) but the way my mind processes such issues as sex, sexuality, gender, eroticism and society seem not to have changed since that tender age. (Though I do use tender in reference to my buttocks which seems a little bit fuller in some of them photographs than it is now. But then again I can’t swivel my head 180 degrees on my neck either.)

Seeing these earlier expressions made me realize that I wanted to show these to the world. Young, and counting as child porn, yes but I feel it was the most untainted view I had on some issues back then.

Right now my focus is on sexuality and gender, trying to fill in the gap between normal and abnormal (in society’s dictations). But some of the ideas I must have had back then were just… well a little mature of my age. Seriously, what 15 year old things about eroticism in terms of sign language? (I believe I was influenced by a young deaf girl I had met on one of my many travels in those days.)

It’s a little unnerving, but it also gives me a sense of certainty. I’ve been doing this for awhile I’ve realized. Sure, awhile is four to three years but better than nothing.

And the fear…

I’ve written something similar to this before, in my very first post as it were, but I don’t know how many people and read that and for starters, if I don’t self-express somewhere soon (why does that sound so dirty to me?!) I’m probably going to end up screaming at some inanimate object.

And nobody wants that.

Fear…

What on earth would I be afraid of?

Um… Life in general actually.

You see in my ‘practically-a-new-years-resolution-and-goal-post’ a.k.a. Wanted: Dead or Alive, I set myself many standards and many things to achieve.

I’d almost forgotten the fact about why they were still undone.

Self-doubt, not the ‘oh-i’ll-wake-up-in-the-morning-and-it’ll-be-gone’ type but the crippling, ‘please-don’t-take-the-covers-off-me-I’m-dying-inside’ type.

I’ve written majority of this before but I’m writing it again because it never really disappears for me. No matter how much I talk about it, try and get over it, think I get over it, realize I’m not over and fall flat on my face again, I can still never seem to anticipate it.

My self-doubt is an odd beast I think.

I’m terrified of not having my dreams come true.

And I’m terrified of having them come true.

So how does self-doubt fit into this equation?

I doubt that if I get everything I want that I’ll be happy, and I doubt that if I don’t I’ll probably still have the same feelings.

I want to change the world, but I also want my life.

I haven’t yet figured out how these to mix evenly enough to coincide in my heart yet, and I figure it’ll take a little bit more time.

But now, being in the questioning society that I am, other thoughts have begun to seep into my mind and further feed my fear of the future.

“What if I turn out not to be queer?!” – Kind of stupid really and even the thought of kissing a guy is kind of gut-wrenching, no offense to them or anything.

“What if I decide I don’t like what I’ve done to my body?!” – Another stupid one really, it’s a bit too late to go back on several tattoos and many piercings. But then again, with the rate of plastic surgery, who knows?

“What if I hate what I’ve become?!” – This is probably a more legitimate one. I’ve always promised myself that I would be a righteous person. Fight for the little people. Bring perspective to an ignorant world. But what happens if I turn out to be my own worst nightmare?

That’s what stops me from falling asleep at night.

It’s officially a week till my 18th Birthday, so it’s also officially a week until I move into my Uni accommodation.

Suddenly my future is right there and my door and all I want to do is turn on the TV or pretend I’m not home.

But since, knowing myself and my huge ego, I won’t ever admit this to anyone vocally. I’ll admit it to this blog because well, I don’t know if I’ll ever meet any of you in real-life, unless of course you’re reading this as one of my few friends who know the truth about me.

But anyway, there it is. Fear of the future and what I might become, but a fear that nobody will ever know because my pride eats up the air I breath it’s so domineering.

I’d like some thoughts about this… Or at least some advice.

– Cal.