This is my sext.

My roommate likes to keep the air conditioning at night set at around 105 degrees. People poke fun at me because I dont sweat, or at least sweat as much as they do. In most cases when its hot I usually resign to the fact that it is indeed hot and I am in it. We, the heat and I, coexist as if two big dogs that just met only behaving for the moment because our masters are in the room. If either of us flinches there is no solid odds on who will come out alive. Working so many years in a kitchen over a broiler, skateboarding in Phoenix and living in Orlando, where it rains every damn day in the summer for 15 minutes between noon and two pm(I'm not comfortable being able to predict the rain so accurately on a daily basis, its weird), I have had spent some intimate time with the heat. We go way back. Of course I do sweat. I just dont let it bother me, most times. When we were building our new house I was enlisted to go into the unfinished basement to spread the gravel evenly, so the concrete guys could pour a level floor, part of which would be my bedroom. In middle school I played football and sprained both my wrists but would not tell anyone. I wanted to be tough. No excuses, is what my coaches told me, and I just realized I still carry that lesson with me. When I fuck up, I fuck up, no excuses. So, my dad was forcing me to shovel gravel around with two sprained wrists. July in Indiana. Not as hot as Arkansas but hot enough to make 15 year old Eric sweat the time I was a reluctant outfielder drenched with perspiration and paranoia that the ball would be hit to me, for a second time, and I would be forced to try and catch it, for a second time, and I in fact dropped it, for the second time. I hated baseball. I also just 'simile-ed' myself with a younger myself. It was soon obvious my wrists would not support a shovel. The emergency room we went. A few days later I played a game as defensive tackle without trying to use my bandaged wrists. I hope you can imagine how difficult it is to try to bring down a person that does not want to be brought down, all they want to do is move foreword, without using hands because it hurts to move them. The next year was my freshman year in high school. I spent the first week of football practice being speared by the kids that grew up over the summer faster than me. I dropped my pads and picked up a skateboard, with no sweat or regrets. Oh, right. so its hot. I have been given the task of writing about myself in the present and future. I am so much more comfortable writing out of the end zone. (to keep the sports metaphors alive for just another moment) Out of reach of anyone directly involved in these stories I have. Less personal, I guess. No fear of hurting anyone's feelings. Or worse letting people know how I truly feel and having to deal with the consequences. A cowardly way to write, now that I think about it. What am I doing now? I feel I am in a life of rounded extremes, extremes with kid corners. I am in not one but two fantastic rock bands that I love and could put me on the musical map one day. I work at a place I love and could make me rich one day. I have friends that love me and want me around. I have neat clothes and stuff and a cool moped. I'm so alone it hurts. The one I think I want is so far away and may never come back to me. I dream, dream is wrong, fantasize sounds too creepy, I envision her coming back when I move into the first apartment I will ever have had by myself and live with me. For the first time ever I dont care about sex or a trophy. I need to revel in her and what she can do and what she brings out of me. I think. I guess. I'm not certain. I do not know. In this present, my present, I just want. I want so hard and I dont know what exactly it is that I want. Spero tells me I'm a genius because I can figure out computer systems and problem solve at work. Its food. Its not that hard. Is that all I am good for, making strangers happy? I suppose that isnt so bad. Playing music is all about making strangers happy. I dont take compliments well. When people tell me how good I did I feel like they are talking about someone else. I am someone else one stage. At work. So that leaves how much of my life to be myself? Am I truly myself when I am a mirror for what people want in that moment? A song that makes them dance and meal that makes them full. Am I my own puppet. Sometimes I feel a characture of myself. A Websters definition of what someone like me would be. I dont try. I just do. I do what I like with only some consideration of what it looks like. Only some of that is a lie. I'm not sure which.