Love is like a foreign language. If you don’t pick it up while you’re younger, good luck getting a hold of it later on in life. Take it from someone who’s getting rather well acquainted with that reality with each passing day.

I’ve a reputation for being a slut, and I’ve earned it. But even sluts have feelings. If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? And if you wrong us, do we not seek revenge?

Vengeance is sweet, particularly when some pint-sized homosexual who’s knee high to a piss-ant pisses us off:

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“Payback’s a bitch!” As the Chinese philosopher Confucius once said, “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” So often, you wind up hurting yourself just as much as the person you seek to destroy.

I’ve written before that “every time my blood boils, I somehow manage to grow a little colder on the inside.” Why can’t I be a nicer personality? Admittedly, I have my moments. But I can never seem to manage it for very long.

As luck would have it, some psychotherapist died and named as his replacement a twenty-something homo who offered this diagnosis:

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Coming to terms with the harsh reality that I’ve lost the will to love is better that drifting as aimlessly as a broken arrow with false hope.