I like the idea of a wearable computer. I like the idea of a HUD, an earpiece, voice-recognition, wireless connectivity between all parts. I don’t think that the bulk of a computer needs to be worn, just the I/O and the computing power that the I/O needs to communicate with the “guts” of the machine.

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I feel like I must have something to say. Every time I try to think of something to put here, the only things I can think of are passing distractions; the new REM album or the movies I watched this weekend or the number of lunches I had today. Nothing of value. Nothing with substance. Someone remarked to me recently that I “don’t know how to have a conversation that isn’t serious.” I said something like “I never understood small talk” and went back to talking about what was on my heart and mind. I think they just sighed and tried to pay attention.

Is that what you are doing now? Sighing, trying to pay attention as I type miles of text about my own trivial experiences? I thought at first that the idea of an audience would just encourage me to write, but I think now it scares me. Some of the people who know that they can find me here… I don’t know… I just feel like I can’t be myself when they’re around. I have no way of knowing whether they’re around, either.

Look, if you don’t really care, why are you still reading? Is this some form of rubbernecking? Are you hoping to see a glimpse of someone else’s pain, and willing to wade through everything else I spew out? If you do care, why did you let them remove the nearby Taco Bell?

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I’ve felt it for a while, now, and I admit that I kinda knew that I should be expecting it, but it always seems to throw me off. Love is just different for me, I think. More whelming, more permanent. Never reducing; either unchanging or growing. Glowing.

It isn’t fair for me to claim to understand how other people love. I really have no way of knowing exactly how they love. What love means to them, how it feels, how it pushes them. I can know how it is in me, and I can listen to what they say and do and try to understand (not with my head, but with my heart) what love means when it invades their lives. I cannot know their love.

I can get a pretty good idea, though. I’m pretty familiar with love in its many permutations. I’ve done quite a bit of reading on the subject by experts, and by amatures, and I’ve got a lot of hands-on experience and heard many first-hand accounts of love. Because Love is important to me. Because I want to get it right.

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I am want burrito. Where Taco Bell?

Not close enough!

Damn Taco Bell. Damn to Hell.

There is too much pressure to write right now. Too many eyes with too much expectation.

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