Whenever I sit down to write I can’t do anything but compose a sentence and immediately delete it.  My self-hatred transcends my fingers.

I decided to give up on my love life the other day. What an arbitrary thing, I guess you’re thinking. I’m not really sure where to begin in order to make myself attractive or interesting to other gay men, and I’m not sure there is much I should be doing to get that attention. I’m not ugly, nor am I particularly unlikeable. I have the same qualified baggage as the next person and the same illusory criticisms and appraisals as anyone else. But there’s just something about me that doesn’t elicit affection, and if I’m the one who’s clueless to it, then I’m the one that’s in denial over it.

I’m not someone who is meant to be loved, and it is that simple.  It is not something I am completely sure of, but it is something that I feel in my gut.  It doesn’t make me particularly happy, but it certainly hurts less than anonymous dismissal.  And for the first time in a long time I feel like I’m in control again.

Now that I’ve written more than just a sentence I guess it’s not worth deleting.