I Emailed a Topless Pic and Now I am Nervous

I have no idea what it is about summer time but whatever it is, I become a desperate, attention-craving man-hungry fiend. This summer some guy from myspace hunted me down on another social networking site, using my first name and searching through countless profiles. I was surprised that he found me and sadly, stupid enough to accept his friend request. I should have seen a bright red sign that said "stalker alert," but instead, feeling depressed about my classmate's death and unbearably lonely yet fertile, I chatted with him.

I like to take risque photos so that when I am 90 years old, I can say, hey, look when I was 30 my breasts were pretty nice. I sent him a pic after he sent me a few photos of his manhood. That turned out to be a mistake. While my face isn't visible, you can tell just by the shape of my boobs that it very well may be me. :0

Then he told me was married and even scarier, affiliated with some government forces. As a paranoid schizophrenic, I really freak out whenever someone with a close relationship to Uncle Sam wants to snuggle with me. It makes me think of male Mata Hari spies and honey traps. This is paradoxical because I am eternally indebted to said Uncle Sam for paying my way through college and taking a chance rehabilitating a broken down paranoid schizophrenic. Despite my utmost loyalty (and I am not just saying that because Uncle Sam is reading this), I fear their minions. Not as much as I fear hackers or hedge-fund managers, but pretty close. So I tried breaking it off. The more I tried to shoo him away, the more insistent he got that he chat with me during his work hours. Finally, I demanded his real phone number and then he finally left me alone.

Now I have no idea what he is going to do with my artsy nude photographs. Well, it could be worse, it could be a photograph of me doing drugs, that's illegal. So, at least I can say, "yes, I used poor taste, but no, it was not illegal."

Now I am a paranoid ball of anxiety.

Online Exhibitionism

My psychoanalyst wants to know if I'll ever merge all the various pieces of my life into one persona.

The Artist, the Writer, the Student, the Bisexual Lover, the Bipolar Schizophrenic....

Nope, I said. I can't imagine anybody in my city that would be comfortable around all the parts of me. Maybe I am naive, or ignorant, or both, but is there a special soul out there who would be okay with me the way I am?

I have always felt the need to compartmentalize my life into socially acceptable little boxes since I first realized I was different, around the age of 13. Sure, there were moments when I stopped caring, like when I started smoking pot, but even then I wouldn't mention a certain part of myself to close friends.

The best friend I had in my teens and early twenties knew I was bipolar and bisexual, but she had no idea I was a good student, an artist, and a writer.

The boyfriend I had for a year didn't know I was bisexual.

The art teacher I had for nearly two years had no clue that I was missing class because I was in a psychiatric hospital....rather than save my grade by admitting I had a cognitive disability, I just took a mediocre grade.

Now I am even more split....

The best friend I have, who is an excellent student with the same major as myself, has no idea I'm part of United Student Pride, the Gay, Lesbian, Transgendered, Transsexual, Bisexual alliance group on campus. Furthermore, she has no idea I'm schizo-affective and a disabled student who gets accommodations if I request them.

The only person who really knows me, the real me, is my psychoanalyst. Isn't that lame? I think I need to get out more.

This blog is my way of anonymously piecing myself back together. It's my little exhibitionist practice that allows me to vent in front of people without suffering major repercussions in my personal life.

So thank you, anonymous reader from whatever country you're from: I need you. I need you more than you need to read my soap opera life. I am willing to take any harsh comments you may have just for the satisfaction of knowing that, even though you don't like me, you still read about my insignificant life. You know me better than most people! So thanks, from the sincere part of my heart: thanks!