Don't look into my eyes - I rarely look at eyes, I watch their mouths the whole time...

Don't look into my eyes...

Interesting note about myself that I distinctly attribute to being Borderline. I don't look into people's eyes. Do you?

I know that everyone says it's a show of respect, but I can't help but beg to differ. Staring into the eyes of someone is very intimate. The kind of intimacy I save, or feel more suitable, for sex and/or death. I stare at the persons mouth about 90% of the time I'm with someone. I found out that this was a "thing" when I couldn't recall my wife's eye color. I never allow myself to stare too deeply into anything due to being vulnerable. I watch a person as I would a crowd. I zoom my eyes back enough to notice the facial movement of the person I'm speaking with, but I'm watching everything else around. I see everything. Everything. Commonly, I hear, "how the hell did you see that?" on a daily basis. Noticing what people are wearing, watching on their phones, how they're speaking to others, everything. I'm that person who sees behind me.... I see behind you.... lol. No seriously, I'm looking at you, so I can see behind you. :)

Take a chill pill, some of us really are crazy and don't need you clogging up our lane. :) :)

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Sample of other blogs:

Suicide is an option

I believe there are people who love their job, career, whatever you’d like to call it. Everything is changing these days, it’s a slow struggle to keep up with what’s politically correct or not. With loving their primary “thing” they do, let’s define it as a job, if nothing else for saving key strokes; shall we. My job is ok and …. Borderline great… Ha. Honestly, it is. I don’t make much in way of income but doing side jobs from time to time can be refreshing. I, in all honesty, do very well now; especially in comparison to a few years ago—and all the time before that. I used to play video poker, pool, and general small-time gambling to make ends meet. That was the same time someone dear and close to me went to prison, I’ve never been the same. I remember it vividly, dropping my father off at the building that would remove him from my life for the next thirteen years. Looking back, I clearly see that I reverted back to the child that was crying profusely at his Grandfather’s deathbed, holding in all the noises, but my eyes were running like a faucet. When we came back the next day to visit him before we left for home, I couldn’t go in. I cried so hard, I couldn’t move from my seat. I was sobbing and bouncing a little, a physiological response for calming I’m told. During that whole time, I lost my girlfriend of about seven years. Our friends were mostly comprised of couples who mostly knew my partner or were related to her, needless to say they chose her (who could blame ‘em).

So, where were we? Ah, yes—money.

I always thought that money would make everything better. It doesn’t, it provides a band aid that can last or fall off in the shower. I think life is going as well as it can, and it’s definitely better than ever. I explained it recently that if there are categories to life, then each category is exponentially full…even the negative. I feel great, no medications that make my skin leak, my face turn red and fall off and no sexual dysfunction; kill me. Seriously, I’m ready for death. I hear it now, the voice in the back of my head saying the comments left will be horrible. However, I’m thinking of just walking over to the gun and shooting myself in the face. Almost eager to do it. Like I’m waiting for someone to give me a little nudge.

 
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     Ronin sees him sitting at the bar. A woman walks in, striking but only a few heads turn, odd for such a visual delight to be ignored by so many men in a bar. She walks past the long wooden bar located to Ronin’ right viewpoint. A series of small bistro-style love tables line the adjacent wall. The rug was clean, but not the kind that you’d find at a white tux event. Still, this woman walked in and walked it like a runway; in Paris—in March. Dressed to his perfection, Ronin’s in all black, Tom Ford three-piece with wide shouldered lapels. Black Saint Laurent button-up and red soled black-spiked Chukkas from, who else, Louboutin. Checking his black-faced Rolex, Ronin knows not to be late. Timing is everything.