"That the height of this tightrope is just second nature to me"

 I keep scraps of entries in the drafts folder of my email, and then I'm not sure if I've posted them, but I don't especially want to read back to find out if I already posted them because I save re-reading my journal for particularly self-flagellating moods.  But then I'm trying to clean out my email and having so many drafts of emails that aren't emails offends my delicate sensibilities.

(Jeffrey Foucault recently sent out a newsletter with this passage in it "But it’s nothing compared to my inbox, a leaking boat I wake up to furiously bail each day, without any recollection of having bought it. Whole years consume themselves as emails requiring only a sentence in reply moulder away unanswered, and perversely the more care I mean to give them, the less likely they are be taken up at all.")

What sort of day was I having when I wrote this down?
 

Behave as if someone you really wanted to respect you is watching.
Behave as if someone you really wanted to admire you is watching.
Behave as if someone you really wanted to fuck you is watching.
Behave as if someone is going to post receipts.

or this

What if I could stop thinking I'm better than how I'm behaving?  What if I could just be exactly as hurt as I am and need exactly as much as I need and that was okay?