There is a girl.

When I speak to her through this small black box of mine, seeking her with clicks and whistles, ones and zeros, I am full with insecurity and indecision. I wonder if I say the right things, I wonder if she can tell when I am typing jokingly and when I write with sincerity. I am desperate for her. I hang on her every word, and my emotions pivot on the fulcrum of her words. I think of all the reasons that I will never be with her. I am torn by the joy of speaking to her, and the agony of not being to her what I want to be.

When I am near her, that trail of binary insecurities falls away like it was never there. Everything is right and good, and I feel like I can do anything. No, I feel like I can be anything. No, I feel like I am everything. No, I feel like I am just myself, finally. There is no fear, pain or guilt, only joy. A simple happiness, so fundamental and basic, it is as if I have found the root source of all other joy in my life. It is the easiest thing in the world, and I love it.

Say it with me now:

Grover is a pimp.