Going into this week a little less rested than I’d like to be and more depressed than I’d like to admit. Went out on Friday night with some friends of friends, got very drunk (and still managed to take care of people who were more drunk than I—not that they gave a flying fuck either way, apparently I’m that forgettable), wrote a six-page letter, and ended up sleeping on a couch alone with a cat (I’m allergic, by the way).
I’m starting to feel bitter again as the holidays roll closer. Had a sudden flash of anger tonight, the root of which was the frustration of feeling that even after making an effort and trying to care that I’m not noticed or remembered. It surprised both me and my roommates a bit. I’m tired of being the friend, of caring about other people and receive little more than indifference in return. I feel like Pagliachi—ever the comic relief getting the lovers together, but ends up alone and unloved while everyone else finds happiness.
Not looking forward to Thanksgiving or Christmas this year, or my birthday next year (about three and a half months from now.
I miss physical intimacy so fucking much, and sort of wish I hadn’t experienced it, because the absence now is absolutely killing me. And I know that going into a relationship, or even just seeking it out, looking to fulfil that need is a bad idea. But I so desperately want it that I’m afraid of not being able to control myself.
This is the loneliness talking.
Sometimes I wish that I could just be attracted to women. It would be so much easier to find a mate. At least if she’s female you have a chance. My dating pool is significantly more limited since it’s harder to find the guys that I’m interested in (which you might call “straight-acting,” a term I abhor, but for lack of a better definition am obliged to use).
I just don’t want to be 40 and single. I don’t even want to be 30 and single. 27 will probably be bad enough.