Thank you, kind sir

I have written so many things over a relatively brief period (less than one year) about Jake that I have a considerable catalog of discarded thoughts and phrases I could dust off and offer up on any given day. A moment ago I reviewed a piece I wrote when my obsession began, and I honestly was surprised by the pain expressed therein. While I am still alone and full of free time to spend thinking about famous strangers, I have to argue that my outlook has really improved beyond measure.

Yes, sometimes when the knowledge that Jake will never be mine pops back up like a smirking weed in the unkempt sideyard of my mind, I ache. Let's face it, based on the available information, he couldn't be more perfect for me. But that's not actually him, and I know this. Intellectually, I know it. Emotionally, I sometimes forget, and my heart, well, my heart, as hearts do, takes no advice and makes its own choices.

Some folks scoff, and find such intense focus on a celebrity to be wasteful. Go do something with yourself, instead of pining away for some actor. Go be somebody, and you won't have time to think about the daily activities of people whose lives and yours will never intersect. To them, I offer only this: the concept of inspiration.

Inspiration to write, which I had not been doing for several years, and rarely in such quantity and, if I do say so myself, quality.

Inspiration to lose weight, because I am tired of hiding inside a body that acts as a shield between my inexperience and fear and the world at large.

Inspiration to move on, to plan and execute my departure from the family home at a much-delayed age, because it's way past time to go.

Because these things will make Jake notice me, like me, want to be with me?

No.

Because enjoying everything I get from Jake makes me feel so alive that I finally, truly want to go out and live.

Inspiration.
That, and really great fantasy material.

Photos: IHJ.