A house is, sadly, not a home.

It's hard to stake a claim to being naturally intuitive when all you do is second guess.

Things have come to a point whereby all I'll be doing for the next few months would be to speculate upon my role at home, as well as to uber-analyze my situation in relation to the (two) immediate people around me.

The shit hath hiteth the fan!

I like to think that I can see the good in people; it keeps me going and contributes towards my ever-sunny disposition. I suppose my problem is my lack of a panic button, or at least some silent alarm that goes off in the back of my head when things come to a head...rolling.

Mayhaps it's my fat, jolly, naive, positive chinky demeanour. Ignorance is bliss.

I suppose that years of sporadic domestic disturbances and a lack of peace of mind when it came to what went on around my house have taken their toll on me. I'm just tired. Not numb. But tired.

Things should be on the up and up soon, with all the distractions and follies that'll come my way. But, still.

It's like having a niggling feeling that the Rapture is conditional...and you can't live up to the conditions.

I wonder if I'll ever be as scared of being alone as my father is now...and if I'll be as willing to sacrifice as much as he has just to get over it.

Where's the shame in being a man who doesn't have the Jones for lovin'?