I’m happy and hopeful, yet filled with a strange kind of familiar emptiness. It’s not depression, it’s realization.
I don’t want to recreate a life where I’m always grasping, always wanting and needing more. I want a life where happiness feels possible, not a pipe dream.
Sex is a small lifeline lately, counter-balanced with a quick mutual masturbation session. It keeps swinging from old TN and Hy to a bleak comfort. A stiff drink to get me through. I don’t know…
Career, me, my baby. We’re all going the right direction. The rest that surrounds it is less acquiescent, it seems. But I’m not even sure where it’s supposed to be.
I have lots on my mind about this blog: a reader’s question to answer, Boobday, thoughts about my body, your bodies, and a deep, burning secret I want to share.
I’m sorry for my absence from you all. I’ve been with you in spirit if not in comments.
I’m still here, listening. Talk to me. Please. I know you’re there, but I am blind.
And a little lonely.