Friends around me are having their first times in their life. I'm seeing the first taste of falling in love, first taste of coffee, first taste of nicotine, first taste of grade A's, first taste of failing, first taste of being in a warm hug, first taste of real pain and bitterness, first taste of undescribable happiness and comfort, first taste of non-stop tears in their hearts.

Yet, I'm relunctant to be joyful for them. Not that I'm selfish or too indifferent to think about other people, but the fact that I've tried all these first times way before them left me with the impression that those aren't nothing big. Only have I come to realize, after a talk with Perry today, that I'm losing my memories of these first times. I wanted to convince myself that it's not true.

Perry told me, when people apologize to you that they're sorry they've messed up your life, it's not true. It may seem like they've really messed your life up, but in reality, they messed up their own life. I found it amazingly too-true to handle. It's when you got so upset about someone, you realize you did not initiate to break this bond with this someone; you regretted it because you've messed up your own life.

Brings back my first-time memory of holding his hands... warmth and love was all that I felt. No, not love; it's fallen-in-love. His hands are always warm. They are there, and they represent his existance, his protection. Security. Young and naive as I was, his hands signified everything - the time, the world, the whole entire universe. Sweetness. Nothing else but him. How could I ever forget that story of me being a drug to him?

No - memories are there. They're always there, they're part of me, never to be forgotten. One sip of vodka brought me back to that moment; Papa was right - the real time is in your head. One bottle of vodka made me realize that the ignorance of people's first-times was originated from being too deep inside of my own first-times.

I can't handle love. Don't love me. Oh no. You deserve so much more than loving me.