I think I love you, Ryan O'Connell.

I know, I know. It's impossible to love a 25 year old gay dude from New York who you think you know through the internet.

And yet, I feel he knows me. These short articles are love letters to me. Little things I could never admit to myself, the things that tug on my heart. He knows them, he feels them too! Ryan O'Connell, why must you rip out these feelings from under me and flaunt them for all the world to see? I love you, but then again, I hate you. You tell the world my secrets. How could you have known about the trivial problems of my twenty four year old self, and how I hate awkward catch up lunches? And yes, I've gotten that drunk too!

Ryan O'Connell, I feel like I know you. You are my literary muse. I adore you! The Hemingway to a depressed soul. Or whoever they read now, I wouldn't know-- I'm just a confused twenty something trying to grow up when beer doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore.

I'm tired and it seems like no one gets it. I just want to be whatever it is that we turn into when we grow up, Ryan O'Connell. And yet, it never seems to work out. Either I'm too young, or too old, or too drunk (not fun drunk these days, feels like maturity is growing on me !EEEP!). Stuck deciding if it's time to man up or just let go and forget it. This $hit is hard.

I'm tired of growing up! (or at least trying to)

But Ryan O'Connell, I'm sure you understand me.


Ryan O'Connell