...

I've come to the conclusion that I've discovered, rather unhappily, my purpose in life: the punching bag. I find it clear: the punching bag of God, society, whatever...and you may say that I'm thinking negatively, but hell! This is me, this is how it is, try thinking positively when nothing ever goes right, and when something does, it actually, physically scares me.
My strange, butterfly dream (refer to earlier post) was not the first time I've had a dream point the way of death, or destruction or doom, especially involving butterflies: a symbol of the soul that leaves the body after death.
My conclusion about my dream: I'm going to die. It was all a matter of time, and things seem appropriate right now. Gods been knocking off my family one by one for the last 4 1/2 years or so...so why not now? Why not while I feel scared and happy, but exposed?
I wake up shivering still, but part of me really wants my death to happen, even though most of me is frightened. Lance won't talk to me on account of this, so he just talks about the band and what colour he should dye his hair next.
This is it: why am I actually frightened about things going right? Why do I keep looking at him out of the corner of my eye and wondering what would happen if he left me, or died? It's not a fantasy, no, but a nightmare that I can't keep out of my head. So why? Why do good things frighten me and bad things comfort me?
Am I so fucked up?
JV

Sorry

The day my baba died I got some other news: not horrible, but irritating. I'd just found out, I was sitting outside her building on the concrete steps with East West - She Cries stuck in my head like a broken record when my cell rang and I picked it up. A friend of mine had seen a poster in Dr. Disc (an alright second hand and new record store) for a band called Johnny Valentine and the Valentones. WTF?~
Thereafter, I ranted, I was angry etc. and was not all to happy to recieve the nickname "Mr. Valentone" from the same friend. Not that its HORRIBLE, again, but it doesn't do my well, either. At the same time, Lance picked up a new nickname (from the same damn friend), who when she met us, called him "Chappo." ... Making us Mr. Valentone and Chappo.

My father keeps calling still, worried, discontented and apoligetic. One time (I'm not sure how, God had tricked me I guess) he'd gotten me on the phone, and all I had heard, before hanging up, was "Johnathan, listen to me--".
I've been alright, I think, in general, even with my baba's death. Drug-free, self-inflicted pain-free, nightmare-free, violence-free...and Lance and I have been having great sex, and its not intimidating me in the least. (He has a fucking tight body).

With her untimely death came the sudden realization that there are no more Valentines left in the world. Nope. Just me. Just me. Just me. No one left who knew my mom as a child, no one left who has to love me because we're related.

Though in other news, Lance invited me to the Prom. :)

Love
JV