You wanted something personal?

Raouf has accused me of not writing enough personal stuff on this blog, although I don't recall him spilling his guts...
I admitted to Andrea today that though I am no longer depressed, I am not happy. It is almost like a superficial physical discomfort that starts to manifest itself as actual suffering: something that begins as mere, comic discomfort - like suffocating in an ill-advised polyester dress in mid-summer, balancing painfully on broken heels and with no way to quench one's thirst or cool down - suddenly represents some more serious malaise, and becomes acutely unbearable.

The pressure just builds up and there is no release.

I had a brief fantasy: I would take four lovers and I would be fulfilled and happy and busy. But what if each of the lovers is in some way a disappointment. Then it would be better to have only one, or none, to deal with. I know you think love is bullshit, Raouf, and that I must unlearn my attachment to the idea of it, but something that I need I find is entirely absent in my life: some sort of comfort, some sort of ease, some sort of soothing presence that calms rather than provokes my ego. Tonight I do not want a thrill, I want a strong arm or shoulder.