This is just a message to the few people who have PM'ed me about the thread discussing overweight children/adults.

Please don't thank me for taking your place in the line of fire, it isn't something that should be praised.

I was once a fat kid, I am now a fairly fit adult.

But this disgusts me; stop judging. It's not an issue of health, it's not an issue of you and your supposed social concern. You think the image is displeasing. Don't mask your bullshit.

I am now what women like, and I am now what people approve of, and it makes me so sad. I haven't changed as a person.

I have lost a lot of respect for some of the people on this board.

-Taylor

Just a short one this morning.

I currently am in the process of writing six different plays; all of which are unfinished.

Each have their own endearing qualities and I can't seem to toss them; I am by far my worst critic.

Three are being nurtured by the dramaturge in residence with the provincial theatre company that I've worked with most of my life.

The problem lies in the fact that I continually hit the wall. And I can't get past it. I have a trilogy of plays, all based on ruptured or abusive relationships, all comedies, that has become an almost overwhelming distraction.

The three plays are (and these are the ones being prepped for production):

-I Don't Like Mondays (A play about four friends dealing with the death of a friend in New Brunswick as a result of a school shooting/suicide; it is a series of monologues and asides, with bits of dialogue interspersed. The players often play multiple...

Why am I always messing with them?

(For everyone’s information my blog isn’t for coherent or intelligent thought; it’s for the anxious little buzzing in my brain that happens 12 hours of the day).

I just posted about being the nice guy; the person I grew up thinking I had to be. And although that's gone, sort of, and I've moved on to being a person of substance, kind of, I still find myself in situations that shouldn't seem alien to me. But they do.

For instance. I've been here before, but it seemed like the first time last night:

On a couch, I found myself on top of a woman who I've known for maybe a year, with my hand moving down her thigh. She is in a summer dress; she’s a swimmer. It's 3:30 am. This is normal. This isn't a problem, or it shouldn't be. I'm straight. I like sex. She is good looking, and personable; we have chemistry and she and I can talk for hours. I like her dog. My hand is creeping, she is shaking; me too....

"I'm fine... I guess".

My own Pavlovian Bell of sorts, which triggers inside of me this instantaneous need to help. I hear distress, I clear my schedule; that's how I have worked my whole life. And for me to break it down Freudian, i would flip the blame, quite seamlessly I might add, on my parents who never knew when to help or even how to for that matter. In fact I'm convinced my mother came with a chip embedded in her brain; perhaps the first of it's kind in the sixties. Picture it if you dare: my mother, after being passed through the birth canal, was subject to a number of guinea pig-esque tests on how to make women less reliant, less emotional. My theory is that it was a master plan drawn up by a group of He-man Woman Haters to make them less... womany. But their plan was flawed and I'll tell you why; because it created a woman who creates needy little boys who beg for hugs and become far too sarcastic at far too an early age. Or perhaps you could say I'm...