Nothing too interesting happened. I was the one that drove most of the way. My sister and mom both fell asleep, and I went fast, like I always do when I'm the one that has to drive. Of course, my mom wakes up and is like, "Wow, we've made really good time." Of course we have, mom. I was going almost 90 for the past three hours...
I got eye-raped when we were shopping. It was this shorter, very femme, but kind of cute (though not my type) guy. I actually didn't even notice, but my sister did. I guess she turned around and caught him slowly staring me up and down. He made eye contact with her and then looked away. She started cracking up. When we got out of the store, she told me what had happened. She imitated the guy, and it was kind of gross that someone would do that. It actually made me feel kind of dirty... just because I had absolutely no idea it was going on, though I would have probably gotten confrontational if he were doing that to my face. Good story, right?
Then, I was watching a really, really great tv show that I never knew existed until yesterday. At one point in time, one of the actors said, "It was just supposed to be this way" or something... I can't quite remember. But I got to thinking about the word "supposed." Was my life supposed to be this way... and who decides what is supposed to happen in the first place? He does, I guess. But the moment we fall off of His path, how can we tell if He is still supposing things to happen? I mean, if I left the church today and decided to live a gay life, would anything that happens regarding that choice be a supposition? I use this in the context of the saying and recognize that the use of the word isn't exactly correct. But I'm trying to make a point here. It made me wonder how much of what has happened in my life was supposed to happen.
I guess it shouldn't matter. The things that maybe weren't supposed to happen can still be used in my benefit if I'm willing to learn from them. But was I ever supposed to meet him? Talk about draining my resolve to fight the fight. "The fight is still worth it," I used to write after every journal entry. It was my little sign to myself-- no one else would know what I was talking about. It's hard, now, to feel that it is still worth it. Maybe I'm supposed to feel this extinguishing desire in order to make me understand and kindle it more? Maybe I'm supposed to stop fighting this? Maybe supposing that things are supposed to happen in a certain way is just a way to cope with it?
I got home and mowed the lawn. The lines are straight, and that makes me happy. I saw little bits of the bunny in the ditch, but I didn't feel too bad about that. We used to have red foxes in our ditch. The fox pups (or whatever you call them) would come up into our yard. We'd throw pieces of ham to try and get them closer to us. Then, we'd lie really still and wait for them to eat. Eventually, we got to the point where we could feed them out of our hands. It was pretty sweet. In hindsight, I'm really glad they didn't eat my finger or give me some weird disease, but they were cute.
Why did I fall for you, buddy?
What made you fall for me?
These damn gyrations.
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