so very alone…

There are those who have speculated that perhaps Jane is my sexual partner. It’s very important to me to make it perfectly clear that Jane and I are not having sex.

Also, I am not having sex with a man. Nor an animal. Nor an inanimate object.

Let’s just say that I am having sex on a frequent basis, and that it is with a woman of consenting age.

Here are some additional details. She is caucasian. She is shorter than I am. She shaves her pubic area. And she has larger than average breasts, one of which is approximately 7% smaller than the other.

But even the smaller one is larger than average.

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I miss Celexa. I know that it was augmenting my self-destructive inclinations, but at least I felt like I was going somewhere. Where? I didn’t know. But "somewhere," even an unknown somewhere, feels more purposeful than just idling the engine.

What the hell am I even talking about? That paragraph didn’t make any sense at all. I’m going to leave it there, though, because it illustrates my point.

No, it doesn’t illustrate a point. For a minute I thought it illustrated my point, but I look back now and can see that so far, I’m three paragraphs into a post that starts nowhere, doesn’t know where it wants to go, and doesn’t realize when it’s gotten there. I’m like a blind dog: I’d chase my tail, but I don’t even know where that is.

I think maybe I should just stick to just telling a simple story right now. I think I can hold a story together, as long as I just keep the chronology correct.

Mary and I had lunch yesterday, for the first time in about three weeks. I’ve been canceling the lunches, saying I have a lot of work to do, but yesterday Mary said she needed to talk.

So we went to a Thai place. I got chicken mussaman curry (their "one-star" version, which means it’s supposed to be mild, but it still makes my forehead sweat) with sticky rice.

She got something else. I can’t even remember what exactly it was, except the English translation for it was ridiculous. Something like, "Eggplant Delight." But I don’t think it’s important what she ate, to tell the truth.

Anyway, we spent the first five minutes talking about how I’m different (again) somehow. Like I’m less angry, but also like I’m not happy.

"Find me one happy person in the world. One." That’s what I should have said, but it didn’t occur to me until just now. Besides, what good would it have done? It’s not like Mary was trying to prove to me that there are a lot of happy people in the world.

Ha. Far from it.

Mary told me that one of the Sales guys in our company, let’s call him Joe, was making her life miserable. He’s one of the worst kind of people, she said: someone who’s good at detecting gay people, and is also homophobic.

No, homophobic isn’t the right word. Homophobics are the ones who are afraid of homos. Joe isn’t afraid of homos, he just hates them. Homo-hating. I’m sure there’s a word for it, but I can’t remember what it is. I should look it up. Later, maybe.

Anyway, Joe constantly teases Mary with references to gayness and hypocrisy and whether when the little Dutch boy who put his finger in the dike (dyke, get it? Ha ha) it (she) had wished for a little Dutch girl instead.

As Mary’s face got redder and redder, I had the most peculiar sensation: the awareness that I ought to feel something, but didn’t. So I faked it. I’ve been faking a lot of things lately.

I don’t think Mary expected me to do anything about Joe. She knows what a fantastic brawler I am (ha), and she knows that I’m not going to confront Joe, so really I think she just wanted to vent a little bit.

But here’s what Mary doesn’t know. Or maybe she does know and just didn’t let on, in which case she’s more devious than I would have suspected. Shit, where was I? Oh yeah: What Mary doesn’t (or does) know is that I actually have both motive, means, and opportunity to more than get back at him for what Mary’s done.

Here’s why. Devin (my boss) has emailed me about three times in the past two weeks, wondering whether there’s anybody abusing Internet access at the company. I think he’s looking for a reason to fire someone, because money’s tight. It’s easier to fire someone who deserves it.

Joe, like just about everyone in the company, surfs the web just about nonstop, looking at stuff that has nothing to do with what we sell. In Joe’s case, it’s all about politics. He goes to all the conservative sites, then to the liberal sites to troll them.

To tell the truth, though, Joe’s web surfing patterns are a lot less nasty than Mary’s. So he deserves to be fired, but she deserves it more.

But Mary’s my "friend," I guess. And I can make my life easier, Mary’s life easier, and Devin’s life easier if I out Joe.

Joe’s life, of course, will get harder. But he’s in sales, he’ll find another job soon. Maybe selling cars or real estate or something.

I’ve thought about this as much as I can for right now. I’ll think about it more over the weekend. I already know, though. Joe is toast.

I’m going home. now. I hope my sexual partner will let me just watch TV tonight in peace.

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Up until a few months ago, when I was sitting home alone in my condo on any random evening, I would wonder how many people in my neighborhood – or city, or county, or state – were having sex at that moment. The thought of all the happy people out their sharing their love with each other filled me with envy and remorse.

I don’t feel that way anymore. Sex is a drag.

At least it has been recently. For one thing, there’s no emotional bond. Based on previous encounters with Bertha, it seems like I should be feeling heightened affection for my partner — maybe even disproportionate affection. Instead, I feel empty, like I’m passing the time in a waiting room, only I don’t have an appointment.

An even greater problem is the physical act itself. It’s just not working. When I try to build up to orgasm, I remain flatlined. I grunt and thrust and push, faster and faster, and all of that effort just makes me sweat harder. My partner tries to say sexy things to help me out, but it all sounds ridiculously unerotic. “Yeah, baby, more, more.”

I just want to tell her to shut up and leave me alone.

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When I said in my last post that “I agreed to go see a real doctor so Jane would shut up about it,” I was just joking around. Jane has been an incredibly supportive and positive influence on me during what would have otherwise been an almost insurmountably difficult time.

Many of you have wondered what I was doing while I took a little break (was it really a month? I must have slept more than I thought) from blogging. The truth is, I’m not ready to go into it too deeply, though I plan to at some point.

Let’s just say, for now, that I now realize that my mother is alive, but that our relationship would be better if she weren’t.

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Jane convinced me to get medication from a real doctor. Actually, a better way of saying it is that I agreed to go see a real doctor so that she would shut up about it.

News flash — the board-approved doctor doesn’t think it’s a good idea for one to medicate oneself with drugs that one purchases from Mexico. I have to admit that part of me agrees with the smug ninny. While the drug cocktail I was taking made some of the pain go away, the pills took over in an unexpected way.

Now I’m on Paxil. Just Paxil. Oh, and some prescription-strength ibuprofen for my hand. I feel mellow.

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Not too long ago, I realized it isn’t necessary to separate whites and colors, especially if you don’t have any red clothes. I don’t have red clothes, so instead of carefully separating the socks from the t-shirts like some obsessive-compulsive wretch, I just throw in a load of clothes and get on with my day.

There are exceptions. I got barbecue sauce on a white collar once, and my urine-soaked white slacks needed to be washed with bleach in hot water. So that’s all fine and good.

The really odd thing is that every now and again, I pull a bunch of clothes out of the dryer that I don’t recognize.

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