I’m not sure what I’m really about to write about. I’ve been fighting off depression the past few days, but it’s not really depression–at least… it doesn’t feel like depression. There’s certainly a bit of surrender in it, in a sort of “Meh, who gives a shit” way, but it’s not really depression as I’m used to it.
Although, it also is familiar, really.
I’m bored, really. Not “bored” as much as “lonely,” perhaps, though they’re one and the same for me these days. I keep running into unexpected problems with females, and the one I’ve run into most recently is her apparent inability to recognize me as a female. I didn’t think it was an issue until I mentioned that I focused on my legs and ass when exercising because I want a sexy butt, and she replied something like “Ew. TMI.” When I asked how that was too much info, she said “I thought about gay stuff.”
I stopped replying to her, and I’ve only said one other thing to her since, a tangentially related thing about how guys are really bad at sex, with very few exceptions, primarily because most guys think that it’s something that would come naturally, and so they think if they spend any time reading about how to actually pleasure a woman it means they’re lesser men. It doesn’t help that American sex education is a joke, and I’ve been saying for years that sex ed should separate boys and girls, and then spend a semester teaching boys from the book The Black Box of the Female Orgasm, because it would go a much longer way toward making the world a better place than another lecture about STDs and condoms.
It was strange to me that this chick who I was talking to romantically interpreted me talking about my butt as “a gay thing.” While there’s also that underlying idea that she seems to think I’d want my butt to look sexy for anyone’s benefit but my own, that’s not the issue here. But yes, I want to have a sexy butt. I don’t care if you think my ass is sexy. Why do people have such a hard time understanding that? It’s really not complicated.
But why would she think that my butt has anything to do with “gay stuff” anyway? She knows that I identify as a female–or a shemale, if you will–and she knows I’m only interested in women, that I consider myself a lesbian. How badly does she have to not be listening, in order to interpret what I said as having to do with gay stuff?
She replied to my message about guys and sex with “Yeah, blah blah, only one guy was different, blah” and I said “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Guys always struck me as pretty selfish.” I mean, I don’t have a lot of experience with guys, and that’s why I had texted her about it.
She replied: “Uhh… Feeling guilty?”
As though I needed it nailed in, she essentially confessed that she views me as a guy.
You know, it was the Vegas chick who really made me realize that I couldn’t keep parasitically deriving feminine beauty from women as I’d always been trying to do, and I no longer do that, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating to find that, even without that, the chances of me finding anyone who is even somewhat “on my level” are slim to none. That’s why the Vegas experience was so damaging; for years, it had seemed that she was “on my level”–which is not to say my level is above or below anyone else’s, because it could be parallel. Then it turned out that she was, how to put this kindly…
Just like Toni.
Oh, but I haven’t told you that story, dear readers. Oh, goodness, what a story that one is. Not really, actually. She was just a manipulative, drug-addicted sociopath who was a fucking tornado that destroyed everything around her.
fly away–fly away, phantom
Rainbow is in heat again. I say “again,” but “still” would be just as accurate, because I don’t think there’s been more than 5 days this entire year that she hasn’t been in heat. And if you’ve never experienced it, you just can’t imagine how extraordinarily frustrating it is to have a cat constantly walking around the house, meowing loudly.
I still think about the Vegas chick, but not very often. Surprisingly, it’s only been about two months since we last communicated. It feels like much longer than that, but my measurement of time isn’t exactly reliable anyway. I try to slow it down as much as I can, by forcing myself to constantly remain aware of its inexorable passage, but sometimes entire weeks pass me by without me noticing. I hate that. I hate time.
I don’t want to live forever, but I don’t want to age. I want to stay pretty much as I am (except for the obvious changes, of course), and then randomly die a few decades from now.
I should probably play the guitar.
I haven’t done that in a while. Not in a meaningful way, and it kinda feels like I could use that release. I can get lost in my music in a way that I can’t really explain.
Another day has died.
Goodbye, moments of the day.
Countless opportunities were squandered today, and I can think of plenty of ways I could have seized the day better than I did. Carpe diem, after all. Or, for the stupid, YOLO. But I didn’t. And I’d wager that you didn’t, either. An entire day was born, filled with countless moments that waited to happen, and then never did. And we all moved one day closer to death, those lost moments forever gone and beyond our reach.
But we still have this moment, at least. In fact, we’ll always have this moment. Even if you’re reading this five years from the time it was posted, we are still in this moment.
Well, this was utterly pointless, but I think I do feel a little better, so that’s something. And Rainbow shut up, but she’ll be back at it in a few minutes. I am almost able to cast off the wig entirely, which is good because I found out recently that one of my cats put my wig through hell after knocking it off my dresser and then deciding that it would make a great bed.
Humans are funny creatures. We’re easily the most vicious species on the planet.
Think about the dozens of things you do every day that your cat or dog hates. I won’t hesitate to start playing the guitar if my cats are sleeping. There have been several times I pushed Rainbow off my pillow so that I could lie down. And she never hissed at me for it. But reverse the roles, and imagine yourself sleeping on that pillow, only for the cat to come along and try to take it for herself. The human would wake up angry, grouchy, and would probably yell at the cat. A lot of humans would even slap the cat.
Honest to fuck animals are less vicious and temperamental than we are. My cats never yelled at me because i accidentally kicked over their water bowl, but I’ve certainly yelled at them for doing the same. These days, I catch myself, of course, but I’ve still done it in the past: “Goddamnit, cat!” Who the hell am I to bitch at the cat? The cat doesn’t bitch at me.