It’s almost over. I pretty much knew when I started this that it wouldn’t last, because none of these relationships ever last. I jump into it, delighted, like (pardon me) a pig in shit, and wallow around for awhile until abruptly it just…ends.
So it’s ending. The worst part about this is now I have to go through the whole post-apocalyptic limbo scene again, where I just don’t have the energy for something new but then neither can I stand the sudden space in my life that it used to fill. I’ll wind up once again jumping in and out of, shall we say, less worthy pursuits, just to keep myself occupied. Just like last time, I’ll start heavily relying on my friends to get me through the unoccupied weekends. I’ll be haunting all kinds of quote ‘pickup joints,’ desperate for something new even though I can barely stomach the thought.
I hate this. I’ve been drawing it out as long as I could, but yesterday I initiated a nine-hour communication session pretty much designed to finish it, and I predict that today will see the whole thing come finally to its depressingly inevitable conclusion.
I admit, I’ve already started flirting with other men: Pynchon, Ondaatje, and even a brief saucy glance at Herodotus. But none of them are mine in the way this was mine.
I’m wicked depressed, y’all. If anyone knows a good book they could introduce me to, I’d be grateful. Just to tide me over. Just to make it through.
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