Preparations and the back-up plans that love them. . .

It is time. Time. Time. Time. Time to stop the tears, moaning, the bitching, the self-pity, the heartbroken forlorn sense of existence. Sure, the only man I have ever been in love with doesn’t love me. I’m not the only one who has gone through this. While I hope I never have to go through this again, there is a good chance I will. So, it is time. Time to live, really live, again. At least as much as I can make myself. To do this I have to prepare.
As proof that I am serious, I have my first therapy session in about an hour and twenty-one minutes—ok, exactly in an hour and twenty-one minutes. Four months of desperate angst and weeping is sufficient, so professional help is a must! To think that I began this with the notion that it is time to stop the tears. . . yeah, ‘cus therapy never leads to more tears. I hear tears heal though. Shit, I should be near invincible by now! So, therapy, becoming whole, healthy, and optimistic once again. Be able to look at the past with tender reminiscence and fondness instead of overwhelming regret. Yeah. Of course, should this not work out, the tears and heart shatteredness makes for great writing material and a great excuse to indulge in Cold Stone and Sonic. So, either way. . . I win!
That fat little boy (let’s call him Wilbur) that still resides inside this short body of mine is busy making preparations of his own. Last year, at TB and JS’s Halloween party, Wilbur saw, through mine eyes, my friends SM and TH in their costumes which left little to the imagination. They were GORGEOUS. Well, Wilbur, being the superficial, insecure little shit that he is told the body in which he resides that it needed to be in equal form by this Halloween. I was well on my way this past March, then love happened, then life-altering pain and damage occurred and that goal went to inhabit some other gym bunny. Wilbur has little patience and has decided that he doesn’t care about the events of the past several months—for being such an obese little fuck, he is very militant—kinda scary; kinda hot. Yesterday, he forced me to purchase (or rent—tomato, tomauto) a rather sluttish costume. JS and TB’s party is Fairy Tale themed this year (rather appropriate, don’t ya think?). I will be in attendance as a Satyr (think Mr. Tumnus or Puck). So, while my legs and hooves will be covered with hair, from navel up, all that will be seen other than my skin will be a pair of goatish horns. Rutting season, anyone? Back up plan? Over-sized vest and mammoth scarf. I suppose I could just tell people I am a jiggly stuffed pig. Cheers to no Cold Stone or Sonic over the next few weeks. Therapy had better work, or Halloween could be an embarrassment of colossal proportions! God, I hate Wilbur!
Preparation to the third degree: Finish the Master’s degree, write and paint full time (on my off time from underwear modeling), and never work again. Why get a degree if you are actually going to use it?—how unoriginal and lame. I will find a way to turn the inevitable sense of joy, purpose, love-fulfilled state that I will undoubtedly be living in into a muse to further the destiny of my writing/art/modeling career and become the next Emily Dickenson (just with a thicker cock and less suicidal ideation). I suppose, by the slightest inference, that this may not come to pass. “What then?” you ask. . . then I will be back at Diedrich, sipping my blended drink, blabbering on about my life, as if someone could find something redeeming in my words, covering my pain with sarcasm and self-proclaimed wit, returning home to my furry, four-legged romeo, and making ever-unending preparations and plans. Huh. . . I wonder what it would be like to be living a life like that. . . intriguing. . . I should give that a shot sometime. . .