documentaries. intervention.  true life.  hell, even dr. phil (i am so shameless!).  i am fascinated with victims.  i have found nothing quite as cathartic as voyeurism of the downtrodden.  while some people like to climb on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn, i'd much rather curl up with a box of tissues and spend the next 30 minutes to 2 hours purging (emotionally...in this instance).  it's not so much that i derive pleasure from other's pain; but that it somehow validates my own afflictions.  it's a connection i so deeply desire from others, but so rarely find.  and i am sure that's largely a fault of my own.  i've known my closest friends for 20 years.  two decades.  and yet we rarely exchange any raw emotion. somehow intimacy is easier for me amongst strangers.  less judgement? probably not.  but less to lose, maybe.  although i think in reality-the perceived loss is more a figment of my paranoid imagination.  

i had planned to expound on this, but seeing as how it took me forever to get that much out - i will stop. i used to journal all the damn time, and like many things, it was lost along the wayside.  i have such an insatiable craving for an outlet and yet the blockage remains.  oh how i miss the days when i could just write, and write, and write.  i'll get back there.  but not today.

love. jena.