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I'm flying by on coffee.
As per fucking usual, without any strong inclinations to make progress.

I sat around, NAQ-ing a little. I made no real conclusions about the music lessons, the financial situation, or what I really think about Gay K telling me all the time to prostitute myself out.

He's not kidding.

I think he just hates being the only street worker he has in his immediate social pool. Why me? Everyone gets a vibe off me; Gay K obviously thinks I'm impressionable. Nothing in his tales of street work makes me want to join in; well, the money aside.

I think if I wasn't such a stuck-up bitch with broken orifaces, I might actually have been persuaded. If I could kill the side of me containing my stubborn pride. If, if, if. If I didn't think my family would find out. If I didn't think that people I hate would probably attempt my services. So on.

Am I really that hard up for money? So hard up that I lament the fact that I'm sexually inept? For purposes of money?

Somehow it would seem fitting. Big D sees me as a whore. Caesar seems convinced, too.

I get laid twice a year; what the fuck does everyone want?

I'm feeling deflated about my sex life all over again. I don't do it for fun, sex, that is. Am I asexual, or do I just fuck really boring people?

I dream a lot of missed orgasms. A lot of the time, people come in to interrupt me working on one. If I'm not dreaming of specialty dildos, I'm dreaming of Big D being my best bud. Yes -- my mind at work. I wake up most mornings dismayed that my head is spewing such bullshit.

Big D was in my dream, last night. I was telling him I missed him; we was looking up at me for a kiss. And, I did, but I kept thinking -- "I'm still gay!!"

There's a lot of fucked up nonsense in my head.

The closer I get to finding therapy, the more I'm starting to get convinced that no one needs to hear my bullshit. This includes friends, family, and especially therapists. I NEVER feel better telling people my problems. I just feel more amped to continue on, analyze, dig in and rip things out by the root. And the people I tell my bullshit to? Well, they think it's just dandy -- they all think I'm some pussy bitch who can't solve things on my own.

Because I can't.

At least before the breakdown I could internalize everything, and stay quiet. Now, it's all flying forth, like mental diarrhea being transmuted in to monologues.

I miss being a private person.

I miss feeling like people liked my company.

This coffee sure doesn't make me feel better today; at least I'm not fucking sleeping.

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*DISCLAIMER
* WHO TF IS ALL THIS??!
* INTRO, 2
* NAQ

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Circa 2010