wine and cheap perfume

I pretty much stopped writing in my blog this summer. I had spent so much time writing as I sobbed my way through the winter that when summer rolled around, and I started dating a new girl, the prospect of sitting in front of my creepy little laptop was repugnant to me. So I lost myself in a new relationship that did little else besides distract me from the fact that I always need to be lost in something and this is an issue. Finally on meds, seeing a shrink who I love regularly, a beautiful girlfriend. Life was good. Sort of. When you come in contact with people who are far less fortunate than you are and have been, you put things in perspective. But it's this self-loathing that impedes any chance of actually learning from my experiences at the shelter; an irrational and weird ambition to be both the kids' best friend and a parental figure; to be an object of desire but also really down to earth and unassuming. When a 300-lb. teenager with the worst case of eczema you've ever seen approaches you with a bottle of shampoo and asks you to wash his hair before it gets braided, and you're running your fingers through his hair, pressing your fingertips into his scalp, pretending that you're not freaked out as the his rough cheek grazes against your bare arm and he starts beating the other side of his face with an open palm because the itching gets so bad he just can't take it and would rather hurt than itch; when you're wondering if you could get anything from this ailing child, as you jut your backside out because you know the cute A.G. standing behind you is staring at it, as you feel guilty for all of this and more, because you can't braid hair, because you have a family, because you have everything but self-respect.