2004-01-08

la petite mort is morte...

whoa... (to quote a former Philadelphian and teen star of the 90's).

It's been a good five and a half months since my last entry. And, heck, all previous entries were just within one month. Not that I didn't have anything to write about during those other five, but life has been purty darn good. Which doesn't make for good writing, eh? So try this on:

I'm frustrated. Most of my positive New Year outlook has already been eroded in 2004's first week. Work brings new stress. My lack of activity has manifested it self in more of me to love. I still don't live in my new apartment, rendering it a $900/month 2 BR closet next door. My sex life, while not officially declared finito, has been relegated to a, perhaps, weekly occurence, routine not only in schedule but also in repertoire. My intentions of a blossoming social life was never given a chance to take root before it withers away because I take the easy way out and watch TV. A lot of TV.

In search of silver linings, I've found a recent surge in letter writing, a deeper sense of love (but I still want SEX) and occasional sightings of calm when stressing about the above. Luckily, each of the above, save the sex part, is reversible. Lists will conquer the amount of tasks expected at work; a food mindfulness coupled with my spanking non-goal-oriented movement choices will shrink my newfound expanse in the spanking region. The landlady has agreed to pay a professional painter to finish the Sisyphusian hallway repair/prep/paint job, which will directly impact the lure of cable TV next door (in it's place will be my NetFlix subscription--and that's fine by me).

That leaves my neglected naughty bits. Love is more than physical interaction. Got that. We're at different ages, therefore different libidos. Totally clear. While once the tables were turned, and I was the less-lusty one, it's not to be expected that his desire never waivers. Sure. Five years later it's not going to be like the first five weeks. OK. Throw in medication side effects and some terminal illness (but it's nothing new) and there's bound to be different perspectives. Fine.

How does one not personalize something so personal, or take full responsibility for there own feelings when they feel like sharing them? It doesn't help that the majority of his physical contact involves touching, tapping, talking about and general giggling of my ass�all designed for his pleasure and enjoyment, but just a mild annoyance for me. And, of course, the sexual overtones that accompany these actions are never followed up on.

Yeah. It sucks to be me. Or, it doesn't suck. I wish someone would suck... me.

earlier - later