Quote of the morning:
Cum or get off me.

So he pulled out and climbed off,
apologized, went to shave and shower.
Neither of us came.

I turned to my pillow and cried.
When he came back to my room,
I feigned sleep.

Puffy eyes glazed over on the bus today.
Puffy eyes closing against a headache, a pinched nerve in my shoulder,
and the incessant rain.

I'm tired. We're moving.
Why am I still here?

It's 04.20.
It's gloomy.

Dope J Therapy Time?
No, not feeling it.
Maybe Mary J. therapy time, though.

MUNI or Office Fantasy Time?
No, not feeling it.

Existential rambling Time?
Nope.

Responses to Inbox Stimulus?
Not much in there lately.

Stories about Hugo?
Eh. Def. not feeling that.

Stories about ex-boy, or any of the past lovers?
I have some, but no energy to share.

How about just some pillow talk?
With who?

With myself I guess.

Are you okay?
I guess. Not really. Just sort of.

Is it because of this morning?
It's the weather, which always fucks with me.
And that botched morning wake up fuck by Hugo.

Do you even enjoy sex with him anymore?
He talks about getting a little "sexy-sex".
He doesn't turn me on.
He doesn't even try to get into my head.
He doesn't even kiss my kitty.
He doesn't even check to see if I'm wet.

Sometimes I lie there and feel as he is just stabbing my flesh.
This is sick. This is demented. This is marriage. This is resignation.

Outside of this, everything is fine.
He loves me.
But he doesn't know how anymore.
I could talk to him about it, try again to open up our communication,
but I think it's lost.

Sex is an issue between us that has been used as a vindictive weapon,
a subject that has been torn apart.

Turning the inner eye outward for the weekend. . .

the dopamine junkie