I don't feel right in my skin. I'm too sensitive; it's like I can feel everything, inside and out. When I eat the wrong food, it clumps in my intestines, causing pain and discomfort. (Dairy and baked goods are the prime suspects.)

I have very little self-confidence. The slightest praise lifts my spirits...for a moment. (Maybe that's why some furs live for being called a good boy.) Apparently, autism causes a shortage of dopamine, leading to a constant need for stimulation. Who knows; maybe the Fire Chief in Fahrenheit 451 is autistic. Or maybe I just love that book.

It's a strange feeling: the desire for intellectual stimulation warring with the physical impulse to touch, be touched and (if I'm lucky) someday make love. (I like that phrase better than "have sex" or worse, "fuck").

Am I lucky to have grown up around books? But that just makes me lonely because nobody has the time to read, let alone discuss books with me.

Growing up, I was "the quiet kid". The one who never had the courage (or the social skills) to make friends. I just met a girl whose strategy is to talk or "yap" until someone talks back. Alas, nobody did that to me back when.

I hated gym, though Coach was okay. His favorite game was dodgeball, which to me felt like going to war. He called me Skywalker on account of my long legs.

Perhaps my biggest mistake was skipping sex ed. It might've helped to know why the other kids were so crazy, or what those strange sensations were. As it is, I'm still a bit in awe of women. Am I gay or just afraid to make lady friends? What do I say to them?

On another note, the Critical Drinker is an idiot. Just because he prefers macho men doesn't mean we all have to conform to his image.

Well, I feel better for having vented. Now to figure out how to do it aloud.