Thursday, February 18, 1993
Unfiltered reasoning behind why I wrote the previous vile, disgusting evil letter to Genny (early 93)

**TRIGGER WARNING**One of the most hateful, vile things I have ever committed to paper: why would I post it then? **EXPLICIT**

Wednesday, February 17, 1993
Reduced to Ashes (2-17-93)

Sunday, February 7, 1993
Dear Brain, would you please shut up now? (The Genny saga continues, overanalysis ad nauseam) Early 93 unsent
To analyze or not to analyze. Well, pro-wise, I believe that I need to discover what it is I'm feeling, if it's valid and what course of action I need to pursue. On the con side, sometimes it is best to leave well enough alone.
Problem: all is not well enough. Either I need to change my expectations, priorities and requirements, or I need to hold onto them (however foolish and unreasonable) and search for a person (perhaps mythical) that can fulfill my ideals.
I will try not to overgeneralize. I am stuck between feelings of amorous affection for you and the desire to cut of any emotion at all so I won't be hurt when you finally tire of me. It is obvious that the feelings can never be mutual. Whatever stage of maturity you have or haven't reached, you are at least certain that you don't want a relationship. And am certain that I do.
I would be very willing to try to be the gallant sideline gentleman in your life, perhaps occasional intimate friend, who is always secretly hoping you'll come around one day and feel for me as I do for you. But I don't feel very mature. I am all fairy tales, hormones, daydreams and delusions. I can hardly handle a missed phone call; what would happen if you went away forever?
You have said that you are just not certain about anything. I find that I need a certain amount of certainty in my intimate friendships. I mean, I don't even like the idea of a non-committal relationship. You have been through a lot, and it has left you doubtful, pessimistic about relationships and even a bit paranoid to become involved.
You seem to have feelings for me at times, and then a sort of aversion at others. Whatever the cause, past relationships or whatever, you are at a place where you don't want to give your heart away. You are a very self-reliant individual. I don't think i is fair to either of us to deny our basic natures.
I'd love to have a friend/lover who is as intelligent, beautiful, warm, honest and genuine as yourself. In fact, if you were not in the place in your relationship history that you are, you would be an ideal candidate. Thing is, I think you are like a field that needs a seven year rest. You have become emotionally drained by previous failed relationships and are burned out on the idea.
I do not take this personally. The fact that you've spent as much time with me as you have tells me that, in spite of your current state of mind, you at least see something interesting or attractive in me. Thank you for giving me some self-respect. I feel like less of a loser than before I met you.
I still have a long way to go, and the problems I need to work on are not the kind of problems you have the time or emotional strength to deal with. You need to take some time and decide what you want and then find someone stable, who will provide you you with more than vast grief.
I can't help thinking that there must be someone out there that wants to commit to a long-term monogamous relationship. Which is a fancy way of saying I'd like the other person to love me. I have no delusion that this kind of thing is instant or magic. It takes work.
I am willing to do some waiting, but ultimately, my ideal is set. You may never be ready to commit to anyone again. It could take ten years. I don't have that kind of time to wait before I start working on my dream. I just can't handle too long in limbo.
We could commiserate together, but it would leave me more miserable at the end of the "co" part. I just have to let you go. It's not fair to place demands on someone emotionally. It can't be done. I'm finished. Bye.

Monday, February 1, 1993
Genny, Part Two (Love, depression, obsession ) Early 93
Dearest Genny,
Why I choose moments like this to write to you is a mystery to me. I write because I must; I am compelled to write or die. If I do not find a release for my emotions, I will implode and fall to pieces on the floor. I wish I knew God. I hear He's the one to talk to when you feel like you're going to die of heart sickness.
Where do these feelings of utter despair come from? Why can't I let go, disengage the wheels of depression, which ceaselessly circulate painful thoughts through my head, like some horrific merry-go-round of madness?
OK, get a grip. Breathe. Count. It's OK.
No, it's not. Not OK. Nothing's OK. Everything hurts. It hurts to sit here. It hurts to think. It hurts to try to plan alleviation of my suffering because all it involves is the same old worn out remedies that don't work.
Who the fuck am I? Where will I be in ten years? Will I always be this godforsaken depressed?
My rational mind, usually present to offer reason and good hope, has seemingly gone to sleep or left the room. Anyway, I'm in here with a big tangled ball of confused emotions and no one to tell me, "It will pass." God, I feel like I'm on an all night acid trip. No control. Well, some, but I'm just hanging on.
So, why do I want to bum you out with all this? Cause you're my friend, and I need you. I hope I don't alienate you with what I'm about to lay on you. Please don't run and hide in the nearest bushes.
I am suffering from a scriptural malady: "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but desire fulfilled is a tree of life." I keep hoping for the elusive "happy relationship" and fooling myself.
In the past few days, since sleeping over at your house and your telling me that you love me, confiding in me that you think you are pregnant with Matt's child and, in general, spending more time with you than usual, I have come to a very painful conclusion: I am in damn-fool, head over heels, muddle headed, puppy dog love with you.
I never got over you. I can see more things to like about you than I did before. Spending a few months getting to know you as a friend only made me feel even more deeply for you. And for a while I thought I was maturely accepting my status. I had to balance my supreme love of having you around with my fear of succumbing to my obsessional nature.
I never want to lose your friendship. It means too much to me. But, oh, Genny, the struggle!
When I saw your ad in the personals, I wanted to cry. How can you? How can you be looking for friends? It sounds so deceptive. I guess I just feel rejected because you told me, "I'm not the one" and "I can't date you." Oh, Genny, why not? Am I really that smothering?
All I want is a little of what I've been without all my life. A little affection, warmth, compassion. I swear I'd never put you through any trips. I just want someone to be in love with. Someone I like, feel comfortable with, who excites me, makes me feel wonderful -- to be specific: you.
How does someone wind up with a girl like you? What are you looking for? Is there no possibility for a relationship between us?
I remember a night, not too long ago, when you told me some very naughty things, and I did not take you up on it at the time. Biggest mistake of my life. When the moment is there, it is like magic. But like most magic, the spell wears, off and I am left with a pumpkin.
Cinderella spent too long dancing. She should have left the ball early and rode off into the night with her prince while they still had the carriage. Would have saved the prince a lot of door knocking. And trying to fit a lot of smelly women's feet into a slipper that could only be filled by one beautiful Princess.
Oh, well. What this has to do with my life or yours is suspect. My analogies always have loose ends.
But Genny, you mythical Goddess, I've never stopped regretting that we never made love. I reckon I'd probably die contented if we ever did. I do love you so much, in so many ways, it's hard to conceive.
I was not kidding when I said I'd marry you in an instant and raise your child as if it were mine. God, Genny, if you are the prize, I don't care what Herculean feats I would have to perform, it would be worth it.
If, on the other hand, I had to sit back and watch you find happiness with another, I'd still not want to lose you. But I'd have to be pretty stoic about it. I'm not a hard person to be friends with, just freaking impossible is all.
I mean, I don't ask much, just that you spend the rest of your life with me. Be my love, we'll be partners. We'll live for today, plan for tomorrow and love every minute. That's about it.
Tell me please that I'm wrong or that I'm right, but please, put me out of my misery. I'll wait for you. Think it over. I'm always here for you. I'll always be a friend, maybe not a great one (I'm kind of moody).
Well, I feel a little bit better, but only because writing takes up energy I'd have been spending freaking out, and now I'm tired. You must be, too. My letters are draining. If I don't send you this, it's cause I've gone past the crisis stage and am dealing with it on my own. If I do, then I really am crazy.

Wednesday, January 20, 1993
Another unsent, unfinished puppy love letter to Genny (exact date unknown)
Dear Genny,
If this ever finds its way into your hands then I am stupider than I even give myself credit for. You see, when I start writing letters to a woman, it is the beginning of the end. It means I have fallen head over heels in big-dumb-puppy love.
I find that after a couple of days in your wonderful company, I am a pleasant mix of confused, elated, excited, afraid, hopeful, pessimistic, amazed and going on crazy. But I feel good.
I guess you know me to be an emotional person. One who falls in love very easily. A fool. But I know my heart. I watch over it. I observe it as it goes through its changes, makes its mistakes and pays the price. My mind is rationally taking notes on life as my heart experiences upheaval and renewal.
I know how I feel about you as a person. As someone with whom I have shared friendship, ideas, beliefs, trust, heartaches, good times, music, food, and a warm blanket by the fire, I can say that I really do love you. I will always care about you, desire your friendship, be concerned for your well-being and be there for you if you ever need me.
I could not honestly say that about Joy. Even during the best moments, I held a piece of my heart back. I had my own doubts. I was not truthful to her or to myself. She was saying "I love you," "Your all I want in a man," "Let's move in together," etc. etc. while we had only known each other for a week. It was too much for my little brain to handle.
When she later came to her senses and said,"Let's cool it," I must confess, it didn't bother me nearly as much as I had expected. In fact, it was a relief. She was not what I was looking for, but I just couldn't reject her when it seemed like she liked me. I have since learned to be honest with myself about my feelings (ha) or to try to be.
I never stopped liking/lusting after you. I just kept on finding different things to like about you as we'd spend time together. You seemed sympathetic, aware, understanding, pretty, funny, "wacky", in general a real joy to be around. I can't help feeling very strongly about you.
We have shared some intimate times, which I will never be able to forget. I hope they don't have to just be memories. I don't know if you could ever see yourself with a guy like me, and I could only dream of a girl as wonderful as you, but I just know that I love being with you.
You turn me on. You make me feel all squishy and weird. Lying next to you, I felt a combination of blessed contentment and tortured restraint. I want to make love to you so much. God, you are so beautiful, and so near, yet I don't want to make you feel smothered, or like the object of unwanted affections. I can't help wishing and hoping, lusting and longing.
You see, its not just dumb-puppy-love My feelings for you are based on what I know about you as a person, your convictions, your taste, your likes and dislikes. I like who you are. Messy room and all. You are cool. I dig you.
I find you so pleasing to be around. I couldn't hope to meet someone who has been a better friend or anyone who is more attractive to me. I am in love with you and that's that. Oh, please please, say that there could be a chance.
I would give anything, do anything to make it work. I guess I really sound pathetic. Oh, well.

Saturday, November 28, 1992
Letter to my mom (Dysfunctional Thanksgiving, Zoloft, Genny)
Dear Mom,
I s'pose I'll actually try to send this letter and get to the points at hand, rather than beginning yet another rambling, never to be sent journal of my anxiety ridden love life.
So, how ya doin'?
Steve, Carol, Tim & I had our Thanksgiving dinner together. We had corned beef & cabbage and continued the tradition of not fully cooking the meat. Tim seems about the same as usual, as does Super Nintendo Carol. We enjoyed a wonderfully anti-social, dysfunctional family get together. Steve, Tim & I played pool in the garage, while Carol interfaced with the Game Station.
I took Tim fishing in my canoe, which was ok, though he is a bit hard to keep entertained. I think he needs Zoloft. Ha. The answer to everything. Oh, yeah, keep them coming; I guess they are working ok. I don't feel much different, except perhaps that things do not seem to be so much of a chore.
I still don't have a clue as to what to do with my life. I have no girlfriend, no plans, no strategies. But any day now, I guess the sky is going to pop open and beam down a column of light and lead me to her. Hope abounds in the face of disappointment.
Genny has turned out to be a mirage. The closer I get to her, the farther off our relationship becomes. Oh, well. I tried. Now I am tired of being the fool with his heart on his sleeve. "Not me," I say, but if she'd call, I'd run to her. Oh, well, at least I admit it.
Music is very therapeutic for me. Soon, I'm sure, I will get into a band, as soon as someone answers my ad...
I am also getting into better shape. My 3X a week weightlifting is keeping me from getting the Golding Gut. Speaking of which, I wonder about Grandma. I called her # and got a young lady's answering machine...I guess I should call old Dad and find out.
Well, I got to be going. I'm off to work. Talk to you soon. Take care.

Saturday, November 7, 1992
Thoughts (while) On Pot (Chico 11-7-92)

Friday, November 6, 1992
A kind of melancholy bliss -- Zoloft, Raving about Genny and a short update on life (another unsent draft of a letter to my mom)
Dear Mom,
Howdy. Thought Id' take time out of my busy schedule of loafing around the apartment, listening to Led Zeppelin and watching mindless, muted Music Television and going out of my head.
Oh, the Zoloft? Not bad. At half strength, it's about like looking forward to a cup of coffee or a Twinkie. But the agitation I am feeling today, I believe we have spoken of before at great length.
I have my heart hung out on my sleeve for a certain young lady (Genny) who is entertaining, for the moment at least, consideration of dating me. Oh, boy.
I am at once happy and excited, nervous, fearful, stupid and overly emotionally charged. Music becomes painful to listen to, but I enjoy the pain. A kind of melancholy bliss. I am plainly in hormonal overproduction over this girl. If I could just keep from blowing it and scaring her off. Like all the others...
Other things have been going on in my life, mainly, the daily work routine, Uncle Steve's semi-weekly dinner/TV evenings, Brian, Mona and Gene -- fishing and yapping buddies -- my music and vehicle recreation (I now have a car, a van and a motorcycle -- Steve's old 550) all take up time not spent brooding over my search tor the ideal woman.
Oh, and I spend a fair amount of time worrying about the future, or my lack of one. I could be a more positive person, I guess.
Sometimes, when the moon is right, and I feel in love and don't have a care in the world, I'll feel like dancing, or singing up a storm, to my neighbor's alarm. I live in the now. When "now" is happening or cool in the pleasurable sense, I am perfectly capable of sitting back and grasping the moment, not dwelling on fears or insecurities.
It's just that most moments are not like that. They are a ceaseless grind of boring sameness. Lameness! I need a challenge, something to live for. A new cause or religion to fight for. You know, an existential experience to cement who I am. Like right now, I'm still liquid concrete being tumbled about in a cement mixer.
Will I be the oldest living person to be confused about what I want to do in life? Will frustration over failures cause depression to get the better of me? Find out in our next exciting episode...
Well, Mom, gotta go for now. C-Ya.
Well, I'm back from dropping Genny off at work. As if that were not a rewarding enough experience, she made me a big sack lunch consisting of 2 cheeseburgers, chips, cookies, banana, apple slices, a muffin and a soda. I am blessed.
I bought her a tiny vase with flowers and constructed a magazine font ransom note type letter that said, "Dear Genny, I love you. Hoody." She thought it was ever so cute and kissed me. I am so glad she had this reaction instead of a whole range of uncomfortable responses I had been sort of bracing myself for.
I really do love this girl, though, Mom. She's just young and confused, and I'm older and less mature, but she's everything I could dream about. We share the same taste in music and popular culture and have similarly repressed religious backgrounds and liberal politics. She loves to cook, and I love to eat. She's beautiful, naturally, and the fact that she desires to spend time with me really just blows my mind.
We've been good friends and almost lovers, then in limbo while she was deciding what she wanted. I just kind of hung around and kept the door open anytime she'd need a friend or someone to give her a hand with something. Anyway, I would be extremely happy to land such a "catch" as this one, and you would just have to meet her.
Well, enough raving. I'll be seeing her again shortly, and I must prepare to suck the marrow out of these moments, I can tell you. S'long!

Thursday, November 5, 1992
'90s Era Survey (to be included with all love letters sent by me)

Wednesday, November 4, 1992
Song for Ramona Reid
Song to Ramona
(Oh, Andrew, Stop Ramona-cizing everything!)

Tuesday, November 3, 1992
Ramona
Ramona,
I am sitting here in a quandary. No, actually it is a chair in the SNC. But
my mind is as baffled as Pat Rupp. The source of my anguish is probably
evident. But let's go back in time just for fun...
I don't know the exact moment when the thought came into my mind: "Hey,
this person Mona, who I work with and occasionally chat with is really cool. I
mean, I feel comfortable around her. I want her to be my friend. I want her to
like me.
“I want her to like me, share her secrets and troubles and confide in me. I
wish she wasn’t married. But that’s ok, ‘cause I really respect her. It’s
better this way. We can be really good friends and never be tainted by problems
that plague most male-female relationships. Maybe by getting close to Mona and
getting to know how she thinks and feels I can begin to understand women in
general (a very bold ambition).
“But she’s so accessible and open. Surely she is an exception. She’s very different
from anyone I have met. So warm and human and unpretentious. God, and she’s
pretty, too. What a lucky guy she must be married to. He probably loves her to
death. (seriously, no pun intended). He should, anyway.
“What’s a guy gotta do to wind up with a girl like this, anyway? Be Gandhi
or Mother Theresa in their past life? The good ones are all taken and usually
taken for granted. Well, I’d never do this,” I say.
Then, the trouble in Paradise. Her man
beats her and she kicks him out or he leaves. She says it’s over, but she doesn’t
want it to be. But she does not want to suffer any more. No more tension or
anxiety in her own house.
She calls her friends for support. I have longed for the chance to show her
that I care, that I am there for her. I feel needed. I also feel guilty
deriving pleasure from the closeness she has allowed me to have with her in
sharing her problems. She seems so vulnerable.
God, I think she is so attractive. Maybe she…thoughts and daydreams run amok…no,
this is wrong. Although we are really good friends now, I have no right to
indulge in this kind of thinking. Or have I? What if she’s lonely? What would
it hurt if I told her how I feel: I know she’s a kind enough person to forgive
me if I am acting inappropriately.
I’ll send her a letter (how original). This approach has never worked before
but, hey, I don’t think she’d really mind a nice letter to inform her that she
is (A) Loved (B) Beautiful. So, I did it. Gave her the letter. And waited and
watched. No response. “I liked your letter,” was all. What did that mean?
The subject seemed shelved. And our friendship was intact. I wasn’t
embarrassed. I figured I had just been so off base that it had been laughable.
She’d never been attracted to me. I am demented, delusional.
So, off I go on my Quest for Woman, sniffing elsewhere, in the personals, in
the supermarket. I can’t stand being alone.
I get involved in an “instant relationship” with someone named Joy. She says
she loves me. What can I do? She gives me wonderful hugs and tells me I am all
that she wants in a man. We’ve known each other less than a week. I have
reservations. I don’t want to hurt this nice girl who is so in love with me (an
indeed makes me feel loved).
But if I ever had a chance with Mona…no, forget it.
Then, a phone call, “I wrote you a letter.” Hmm. What could this mean? Hold
everything. Let’s just see what it says.
P.S. She hugged me—a dream fulfilled.

Wednesday, October 14, 1992
Another One Bites The Dust
Dear Joy,
I probably shouldn't be writing you or even thinking of you right now. I feel like I'm violating some law of psychologically correct dating. Well, so f---in' what?
It's Wednesday, Oct 14. One week plus since I've seen you, and the circumstances of the interval have me wondering and confused. A week can go by fast or slow depending on whether I'm busy or not, etc. It's not a long time in the scheme of things, but this one has been very tough.
The thing that is hard to deal with is the uncertain feeling I have that you must be thinking I'm a big jerk or something -- only you don't want to tell me. So you are hoping I'll just go away. I could be a big jerk. Sometimes I don't always see how my behavior affects others or even notice how I am acting until someone tells me: "You look sad" or "How come you are so quiet?"
But in this case, I really am baffled. What did I do to offend you? It was only a week ago you were saying "I love you" and "You're all I want in a man."
Now, I know I never deserved for you to say those things to me in the first place, however, like a overpayment on a tax refund, I hate to have you take those wonderful words back. They meant so much to me, a habitually unloved person. I thought you were serious, and I allowed myself to feel a moment of comfort in my lonely life.
I thought I was going to be one of those lucky people who love has smiled upon. I don't have an overly idealized view of what a relationship is. I know there are plenty of things to work through, and some relationships may never be worth the work necessary to maintain them. Maybe I'm not worth the trouble to get to know and help to grow, etc.
It is your loss, and I'm not being pouty or saying sour grapes. I really believe that. If you are so cold as to close the door on me after inviting me into your life, then I really feel that you are the one who should feel cheated.
You must have seen something in me that you didn't like, but it doesn't have to mean the end of it all. People all have faults. People can change. I'm willing to work with you if you are willing to work with me. But I just can't deal with the insecurity of not knowing what is going on.
The need for space I understand. The need for time with your kid, time to work, time alone. I understand these things.
But what I feel like is a piece of frozen meat that you took out of the bargain bin and put in your cart, only to return it to the refrigerator after partially thawing it out while walking around the store. I feel like a puppy returned to the pound after a week in a loving home.
I want to cry, and I want to not give a shit, but I can't do either.
I didn't want to get too attached too soon, but you, after repeatedly telling me you loved me, made me feel confident enough to let myself open my heart to you. At this point, I don't know if I can trust you with my heart anymore.
I can't keep going through these aches and pains of romance. Frankly, it sucks. First, they tell you everything you want to hear, then you believe it -- and then they say goodbye. Then you never want to believe it again.
Fuck it. I've got better things to do with my energy than waste it hurting over someone who is more confused than I am. I really hope you find happiness and peace in your life.
Sure, we can be friends. Whatever you want. I just don't know what you are thinking or feeling right now, and I am a bit bitter about being hung up on during our last conversation.
I have been occupying myself nicely this week, determined not to let this area of my life cause the others to all suck as well. And I may be jumping to conclusions. I do that sometimes, though I'm always ready to give my friends the benefit of the doubt.
You are just a mystery right now. What did I do wrong? What did she ever see in me to begin with? What can I do to make things better? To make them more like they were during that first week...Was I dreaming or what?
I'm sorry I'm not a more mature person. My judgement is not always clear where my emotions are involved. Oh, well. I guess that makes me human. Is it a crime to get carried away and emotionally involved with another person these days?
I assure you that whatever psychological problems I may have, I am not an unfit person. I am not violent or abusive. I am not mentally deranged or psychotic (any more than average) or dangerous.
I hope I haven't given you the wrong impression by joking about schizophrenia. It's just the environment that I work in that causes me to banter about words having to do with mental illness, kind of a "gallows humor." Whatever, I'm just shooting in the dark.
I wish you would call me and tell me that everything is alright, that it was just a passing cloud, that you really do love me...
Oh, well. Sitting here writing about it is good to pass the time and get things out that hurt to keep inside, but it doesn't change anything. I feel like a candidate waiting for the election results, or a prisoner waiting for his verdict. I'll probably get the chair...
Well, eventually we'll talk and this letter will be redundant and obsolete. Until then, here's wishing you were here.
AG

Sunday, September 13, 1992
More Joy (another unsent letter)
Dear Sweet Lovable Joy,
Hi there! Much 💗 and ☮️ be upon thee, O woman. May the gods of hemp and interplanetary happiness bless your baggie to the overflowing and may your weary soul kick back, smoke one, and find repose.
Ah, yes. Well, I'm guilty of thinking of you again in my off hours. Please forgive this infraction of the Laws of Psychologically Correct Behavior. I am not obsessing or brooding, just pleasantly reminiscing and contemplating our times together. I've really enjoyed your opening up your life and letting me in.
I realize that I have been taking you away from your responsibilities by altering your routine. I do not wish to upset your life, only enrich it. You seem to be needing a bit of space, so I s'pose we ought to cool down and be more adult about our relationship.
Please forgive me if I make all the classic mistakes. I don't want to play games or use manipulative tricks or be dishonest with you. I am an emotionally insecure person. I need lots of love and attention. When I am sure and certain that I am loved (I am not sure I have ever been) and am secure in the peace of that knowledge, I will require less reassurance and relinquish my fears of being hurt and abandoned.
I know it is not fair to bring the problems of my 27 years into a new and unspoiled relationship, especially when the person is as kind and sweet as you. If I am too sensitive, it is not your fault. I should be more mature.
When I heard you tell your friend about the guy who turned you off by writing you multi-page letters and sending flowers and calling too much, I began to get the feeling that I should be taking a hint from this: Don't overdo it.
I certainly would love to shower you with affection and treat you to the best things in life because of how wonderful you make me feel. I have been lonely and alone my whole life and suddenly there's someone who makes me feel warm and loved. It's only natural to want to get as close as possible and to not want to let go.
I have been starving, and now I am pigging out. I suppose what I should do is to savor you slowly, enjoying each delicious bite, rather than try to devour you all at once. I have grown up with the refugee mentality: Grab what you can today, tomorrow it may be gone.
I suppose that trust can only come with consistency and the passage of time. If the sun has behaved in the same manner (rising and setting, giving light and heat) for as long as it has, I guess I can be secure knowing that it will continue to do so. People are different. They change, die, betray, go away. Not always. There are exceptions. But it is a naive thing to give one's heart away to a stranger.
I have always been the "jump right in" type of person. And I've always been hurt. Hmm. But is indifference the answer? No, life is vulnerable. If you are perfectly protected, you are not human. Humans have hearts and can be hurt.
I want to experience the range of emotions that humans are capable of, in their proper proportions. OK, so maybe I prefer joy to, say, sadness or pain. But if we were meant to never suffer, we'd all be mannequins with smiles painted on, or Brady kids or TV evangelists.
What I'm getting at is, OK, I really like you a lot. Like ice cream or cheesecake. And I'm like a kid from Ethiopia, tasting it for the first time. You, being the more mature of us (because women are smarter) are responsible to keep me in line, set the pace and make sure I don't get bulimic. I will respect your judgement.
I only hope that when you get to know me, you will still love me. I am not harboring a secret life or hidden personality disorder. I wear all my problems, joys and defects on the outside. What you see is what you get. What needs improving, I hope to improve, and my life's philosophy is still under construction.
Take it slow. Ok. Let's do that. But let's not play any games.

Sunday, September 6, 1992
Ode to Joy, or another random love letter from 1992
To begin with, Hi there! I hope the gods of green bud bless your brain lobes with the ever expanding euphoria associated with smoking a joint, meditating or kicking back near a body of water. Peace be to you soul, mind, household appliances and body (including a special blessing upon those marvelously molded anterior parts, of which I am extremely fond). Peace to your buttocks. Peace be upon them mightily!
OK, OK...I am getting a bit carried away in my benediction. Please forgive. The purpose of my letter, besides trying to make you feel special, is to convince you that I am not crazy (ie. psychotic, obsessive/compulsive, addictive personality, manic/depressive, axe murderer, abuser of small penguins...) but simply suffering from an old affliction, often misdiagnosed in modern times: LOVE.
OK, I know that in the early stages, the symptoms of love are very similar to gout, or the onset of mental illness. But dammit (just thought I'd say "dammit") what's wrong with being in love, feeling it, expressing it, shouting it, singing about it, writing voluminous letters of adoration--etc? It seems the world has been doing it for a very long time now, and I must say, of all the attainments in life, love seems the most worthy to be put on a pedestal. Love, in all its forms and expressions, seems to me what it is all about.
Sure, there are some sick and twisted individuals who, "in the name of love," do horrendous acts, but this should not sully the reputation of TRUE LOVE. I don't think one should be afraid to love or to let oneself be loved. The possibility of hurt is inherent in anything we do as humans unless we have had our central nervous system removed or re-wired. So, if we are human and we are going to be hurt anyway in life, why not let ourselves be loved?
"Love yourself," I hear someone in the back say. Sure. But there's a limit to how much love you can heap on yourself before it gets disgusting. And it really is more spiritually satisfying to love others and let them love you back. Self-love is a lonely world. You can be happy alone, and indeed all of us are alone inside our own individual consciousnesses. No one, no matter how much acid they do, can truly share another's consciousness.
But--it is pleasant to share experiences and ideas with another person who is similarly tuned to the universe. Having a partner or soul mate or lover to share burdens, talk, share the bounty of life (good food, music, etc) and have a warm secure intimate relationship with--what's wrong with that? If two people have the desire to be together, to be in love and agree that they will work with and not try to hurt one another, why fight it?
I know that you have responsible considerations to make, as you have a child who depends on you not to make poor choices. But oh, honey, don't you see I have honorable intentions? I will do anything to prove this to you. I am willing to work on my life.
I don't believe that anyone should try to change anyone else. I don't want you to change what you are--what you are is what I'm attracted to. We all have things we want to improve in ourselves, but that is up to us to change or not. I can make adjustments and be content in varied circumstances. I think I am ready to do what it takes to make a relationship work.
I'm not saying I'll always do everything right. Like right now. I should probably be more aloof. Give you more space to breathe and think. And I will. But dammit (love that word for emphasis) I am in love, and I'm not ashamed of acting the idiot. I just don't want to drive you away.
So, darling, don't be afraid of getting attached to me. I will never do anything to hurt or betray you. You are very special to me, I've never met anyone who makes me feel all the ways you do. I feel comfortable with you, like we're already old friends, and yet quite excited by you and attracted to you physically. You are, on the whole, a very wonderful person and I hope you will give me the chance to become a part of your life.
If I do anything that you feel uncomfortable with, I want you to tell me. I feel that people should above all be honest about their feelings.
You know, this has been a pretty mushy letter, all this about "love" and "feelings." Hell, I reckon I got it pretty bad. Please don't freak out because of the fact of my many-worded writing illness. It is genetic. All writers go overboard in wooing the women of their fancy. Plus, I have a lot of time on my hands here at work. Next week I plan to solve our country's political problems. But this week my love life takes priority.
Well, honey love flower petal dew drop baby, I got to go to work. Ta Ta.
Love,
Andrew

Saturday, September 5, 1992
Another Cuckoo personal ad response (Colony Inn Era circa 1992)
I hope to be starting off on the right foot with you (left one's always gettin' me in trouble, yah!), so I'll tell you right where I'll begin. Why be answerin' a personal ad any-way? What's wrong with me?
OK. Fair enough. I started out nice, with a little salutation, and now you want an accounting of all my faults. Well, hmmn. Not going to give it to you.
I don't have gangrene or leprosy (HIV+ or -). I have been celibate for over a year, through circumstance not choice, but all things considered, through choice, by not choosing to do anything about it. Well, anyway, I never have been "promiscuous," to say the least.
I don't know that people do that any more. Do they hold hands? Is there kissing? I know there's sex, I mean, I suppose there is. Sex is just too dangerous to be talked about mildly. It's like talking about a gun. It's negative. Too negative. Let's not talk of it at all right now.
What am I some rhyming kind of idiot? OK. We're OK. Got it all out of my system. Now. Let's get introductions straight, since you think I'm on drugs. And I'm not, by the way. They're on me. They're all over me! Get ' em off! Get ' em off!
Sufficient background? Now can we be intimate? Oh, come on! Hell, please?
Nawww.
343-2372 Andrew (Hoody) Paul Golding

Thursday, September 3, 1992
Dearest Whomever (From the Adventuress Wanted era circa 1992)
09
Dearest Whomever;
Andrew Golding
PO BOX 5650

Wednesday, September 2, 1992
A few attempts at personal ads from the early '90s
1225 Nord Ave. #167
Chico, CA 95926
Date: 9/02/92 Box# 58270
Account: 916-3432372 Password: 7229
Date Entered:9/01/92 Ad Taker: 0005
Start Date: 9/03/92
Talking Personal
Men-Women
ECLECTIC, 27, SWM eccentric hippie, artist type, seeking happy relationship with one kind-hearted, down to earth female. Age/race unimportant, warmth and honest a must. Call voice mailbox 53270.
SWM 24, 5'7", 160, Blond, Green Eyes. With undefinable qualities of a good heart, Love of Life and good and aversion to Evil and bad.
and some generic, pre-written responses to ads I may have run across:
Hi. My Name is Andrew.
I'm new in town and I'd like to meet a down to earth girl. I'm looking for a friend or companion who will help bring out my wild and zany side. I'm 5'9", 160 with blond wavy hair and John Lennon spectacles. I'm a moderated drinker and partier and a non cigarette smoker. I like motorcycles, camping, fishing, rock and roll and alternative music. I like a good time. How about you?
and this one:
Hello Pretty Woman!
I AM ANDREW.
Child at heart, really. I want to meet somebody who will be a really close friend, like a sister who will always be there. Someone who I will always treasure and respect and love. Yes, I said "Love." I don't believe love is a cheap word. And so your friendship means a great deal. But I am an untamed bachelor and am still a little wild at heart.
I am 5'9", 155, Blond hair and green eyes. For a mental picture here are some actors or personalities I resemble:
John Lennon
Mary Tyler Moore
Richard Harris
Peter Fonda
Charlton Heston
Grace Slick (just kidding) Grace Jones
Kurt Rambis
Robert Oppenheimer
Well, I've been no help. I guess you'll have to meet me and find out. I hope we can meet and be friends. I like all the things you like:
1. Rain, Sun, Moon and Stars
2.
3. Travel and the search for paradise
4. Hiking, biking, fishing and camping
5. Music, Guitar
6. Movies, Art, Musical Entertainment
7. Partying and getting crazy
8. Outdoor stuff, going for long walks
9. And, of course, Romance and bein' with someone you care about
Well, here's lookin' at you, kid.

Sunday, August 30, 1992
Daily Record of Dysfunctional Thoughts (92 exact date unknown)
Daily Record of Dysfunctional Thoughts

Friday, August 28, 1992
Rejection (92)

Tuesday, August 25, 1992
Cognitive therapy only works when you identify the types of distortions and form rational responses (Genny and Depression, cont.) Mid 93
Automatic Thought:
Jennifer will not call today.

Thursday, August 20, 1992
2 Women Blues (early '90s)

Wednesday, August 19, 1992
Genny and a few thoughts on Predestination and Foreknowledge
So, the question is, should he spend the next four years with the woman, knowing what she will do? Should he deprive himself of any further companionship with her to protect his already broken heart? Should he kill her now and preserve her memory? He must go crazy.
Because he cannot bring himself to kill her, yet he can't live with her with the knowledge of future betrayal, he is hopelessly deranged and dreams up a host of delusions to convince his poor aching head to stop tormenting him.
One is that he is in a top secret Merchant Marine society. He is always found in bus stations, drooling and holding his cap out, as if asking for money. He develops mongoloid features and speaks with a slow Southern drawl. He urinates publicly and off balconies. He wets himself. He has become the laughingstock of Yolo County.
His size, incredibly, shrinks down to about 4-1/2 feet and he develops breasts. He sports his hair in a Dr. Spock Vulcan bowl-do and has remarkably pointy ears. However, he dies a very wealthy man and well respected in the furniture industry.
This has nothing to do with the fact that his ex-wife to be will be married to one of the world's wealthiest Yugoslavians on Jan. 12, 1997. He died, by the way, of the sudden impact of steel debris, from a railroad explosion, to his temple, causing brain leakage. He was fucked. Anyway, our story follows the woman who married the Yugo tycoon...
You know, Genny, I know that you don't know what you want and can't promise that you won't eventually break my heart. I think you see more clearly than I do. But right now, today Aug. 19, 1992, I know that I like you terribly much and want to be a part of your life. But don't let me be lonely tonight...

Tuesday, August 11, 1992
Dearest Jennifer (Genny): A psycho breakup letter
