©Sweet Kisses™

~*~

Date: January, 2001
Time: Late Morning/Mid Afternoon
Place: My bed
Mood: Sick (drinking too much!)
Weather: Cold


So my 21st is officially over and done with.

And I have a headache. A bad one.

Maybe because I just can't seem to stop myself from reaching out and taking the bottle by all paws when I get the opportunity. Okay, so maybe I've learnt my lesson and I'll refrain from drinking so much in future. Not! But, more or less, I felt good while it was happening, I guess I should've thought about the consequences.

Yes, that's Mr Nickolas Gene Carter: the 21 year old voice of reason and restraint.

I'm only going to live once so why shouldn't I be allowed to make the most of it while I'm still alive? I'm going to do that, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get all the peace and quiet I need when I'm dead, so while I'm alive I'm going to create havoc and mayhem everywhere I go! Care for a joyride? Shit, making no sense whatsoever and my head still hurts.

EXCELLENT!

Note to self: alcohol - bad.

I need a deep breath and some vodka. Or Tylenol. Both the same, right?

Anyway, so Nickolas Gene Carter is now 21 and considers himself a man of the world and this is the first time I've actually had a diary (per se), so it's going to become my new 'bud'. I'll be telling this diary everything. Everything that happens, the diary will know. The diary will be my friend. My best friend. My confidante. My partner in crime (there's a thought).

And most of all, it'll be going everywhere with me. No one but me will know about my trusted little companion and I fully intend to keep it that way.

Because I'm Nick Carter and I have a sense of ink?

Obviously I'm a little out of sorts, so I need sleep.

Good night.


Date: January, 2001
Time: Midnight
Place: A hotel room...?
Mood: Recovering
Weather: Raining


People want to know what you're all about. People want to know exactly what I'm writing about. But they'll never know. As long as I'm involved, they'll never know a single thing about what I'm writing. God, they all have secrets, why can't I? All I'm asking for is a little privacy. And yet they kept bugging me. They kept hounding me something chronic. It was very, very frustrating and I thought that Brian (one of my best buddies) was going to steal you off me.
 
"Come on, Nick! Give me the book! Give it to me now!" Brian yelled at me and fought to get it out of my grasp but I was too strong and my little black companion is still safe with me. 

Hooray for, well, everything. 

Anyway, if anyone got to you, I'd have to say that I'd probably kill myself (I'm sure there's incriminating info that may be added later...). Oh, not that I'm suicidal or anything (maybe...), but a little masochism never hurt anyone. Just ask A.J (though you can't because you're a mute little black book), he knows all about it. Yeah, he's a little on the kinky side, but you get that every now and then.

News flash: I have a problem.

Oh, it's a big problem. A very big problem. And I'm not sure how those around me are going to react if ever they found out my problem. My problem is something that I'd only tell you, diary, because I think that if I don't tell someone soon, I think I might go insane. I'm trying to forget about it, and I'm trying to keep myself from thinking about it. But I just can't, and it's terrifying me. It's eating me away inside and I feel like inside that I'm screaming.

Here's the problem.

What happens if you're a guy and you stop liking girls and you start fantasising about your best friends? Who are (shock!) also male? What happens when you long to hold one of your best friends? What happens when you long to kiss one of your best friends? What happens when you long to even go a little further than just a kiss that involves a hell of a lot more than just that? And what happens when your body is screaming for that friend of yours, and they don't even know it?

I'm in trouble. Of the unrequited love and sexual variety.

I can't even begin to explain how this feels, or how this even happened, or why I am what I think I am and are so afraid to admit what I'm always fantasising about. Oh, here's another confession. Those little fantasies mainly occur whenever I'm around this person, and my whole body just heats up at the sound of his voice and his smell and his smile and the way his pants just hug his hips and...

God, you need some help. Or your head examined.

I'm crazy. I know that much. Maybe what I'm going through is normal. Maybe what I'm forever fantasising about is normal. Maybe even he goes through this, or has been through it. When I think about it, we basically live in each other's pockets, so it's no wonder that I feel the way I do. It's normal, right? Please, diary, tell me that it's normal. I need reassurance. I need guidance. I need someone to tell me what to do. I need someone to tell me that I'm normal and that what I'm dreaming of is completely rational. I need someone to tell him how and what I feel, before I go stark raving mad.

Maybe soon, diary, I might even tell you who "he" is.


Date: January, 2001
Time: Daytime
Place: Dressing room
Mood: Shitty
Weather: Even more shitty!


Guess what? Someone's looking extremely hot today, and it sure ain't me (for once)! He just looks so damn fine in his black wife-beater with his gorgeous arms on full-display and his pants clinched tightly around his hips and perspiration running down his back and...God.

Surely the guy must know how hot he is. He should be wearing a label that reads, "warning: hot". At least maybe I wouldn't be so excited around him or whenever he looks at me. His eyes are just this beautiful colour and I drown in them every time he talks to me. And it's a real pity that what I say in return is hardly coherent.

Am I gay?

Seriously, you ask yourself this question: When did you stop liking girls?

Was it "the bitch", Mandy? Did she scar you for life? Did she totally turn you off girls once and for all? Did she make you believe that all girls were like her, when in reality they weren't? You know for sure that he's nothing like her, and that he'd never treat you like she did. Hell, he was the one that comforted you when you ended everything in that tumultuous (great word - been studying a dictionary lately, have we?) relationship.

Hang on. Let's get us both into the right tense of "I" and not "you".

I know what he's like when he's in love, and I know for sure that he treats everyone like they're perfect when he's in a relationship. And I wanted that. I wanted love. I wanted true love. Hang on, want. That's what I want. All I want is to be loved by him, even if it's just for one night (if that's all I can have). Diary, am I crazy? Do you think I need help? Am I psychotic? No, I'm disgusting! That's what I am! What I'm feeling is wrong. Very wrong. I cannot and will not love another guy, much less my fucking best friend!

I'm not gay, I'm not gay, I'm not gay...

Oh, God, here he comes.

One word came to mind when he walked in. Sexy. Definitely sexy. It's just something that he exudes. I'm not sure if it's the way he walks or the way he talks or the way he smiles or his eyes or just his whole body in general. He's just got that "look". I can't begin to explain it, but his voice is just....damn.

Soft.

Cool.

Yet it had a slight commanding edge to it. Hey, he could command me anytime! Preferably in the bedroom, but that's another story. I know you want to know who "he" is, but I just can't even give you his name or write it or even say it. All I want is for someone to understand me, to listen to my story and say, "hey, it's okay."

Of course, diary, I'm sure you'd say that if you had a voice box.

But you don't.

I want him bad. I want him very bad. I want him so bad that I could cry. I want to know what it feels like to be in the same bed as him (Jesus Christ!). I want to know what it feels like to wake up next to him and see his tousled hair and his sleepy smile and his body sheathed in a white sheet and I want to know absolutely everything so I can -

STOP!

I need to stop talking like this, that's what I need to do! It's making me so crazy that I can hardly stand the sight of myself or what I'm writing and reading. I need help. I need help and fast. I just need someone to tell me that I'm all right. How many times do I need to cry for help? A million fucking times?

SHIT!

Why can't anyone help me when I need help? I'm crazy, you know I'm crazy, so get me help. Like, now! And why is it that every time I have a problem no one gives a tiny shit, but when someone else has a problem it's like, "oh, Brian, you poor thing," or "damn, A.J, that's tough", or "jeez, Howie, I'm so sorry".

And with me it's like, "Nick, fucking get over it!"

Nice friends, great friends!

So, here's another confession. I'm giving you a clue, diary, so you'll know who "he" is.

One word: green.