That Thingy That Beats

I saw something kind of amazing today. As an old woman was walking out of a store, a young man in an army uniform held the door open for her. She turned to him, gently touched his arm, and said, "Thank you, young man. In more ways than one. What you do is amazing. Thank you." And he just smiled, a little bit embarrassed, and said back, "That's what I'm here for, ma'am." I don't know. I was only walking by, only saw this exchange on my way past, but... it kind of made me want to cry. I wanted to run back and hug that old lady. I wanted to thank the guy too. Those of you who know me know that this is a veeeerrrry strange reaction. I normally remain untouched by shit like that. I am a cold, heartless bitch. I like to wallow in dark, hateful feelings. When things go wrong I stew in my anger for days, rehashing everything that has ever fucked me over. I hate children, small fuzzy things, people in general, and above all else, any sort of love or compassion. Lately, though...

I rang up a little girl the other day, and I swear to christ, I called her 'sweetheart'.

Whenever I look at the puppies, I want to cry. I tell them I love them. I call myself 'mommy'. *eyetwitch*

I've had the worst luck ever the past two weeks, but it's rolling right off me like it happened to someone else.

I feel *bad* for Jamie Lynne Spears. I don't want people to make fun of her.

Everytime a little kid cries I want to make it stop- but not by smothering it with a stuffed animal like I normally would. Oh no. I want to hug him/her until the tears dry up. Gay much? I think so. And you know what else? This blog sounds like a list of symptoms...symptoms of a horrible, horrible disease.

I think I have heart. A real, human heart. And no, I don't mean someone else's heart nailed to my wall, or floating in a fishbowl on my dresser. I think that, hidden deep under bones, blood, muscle, and a whole lotta boob, is a real live heart that belongs to me and me alone.

I don't know what I did to deserve this bullshit.