Blvd of Broken Dreams

…I walk alone, I walk alone. I walk alone, my shadow the only thing to walk beside me….

I’m not doing well tonite. It’s been a long day. A long week, actually. I haven’t had enough sleep and I’ve been stressed about school and work was busy and friends were engaging in scary activities.

I’ve felt a little off kilter since last week, but not horribly. Not so much that I felt totally off track. But right now, I think I’m totally off track. My ears hurt so bad.

I was driving home tonite thinking about way too serious things. Things I should probably bring up in therapy tomorrow, but that I probably won’t can’t. It’s stupid shit and nothing comes of talking about it, so why bother.

My house is SO messy. The cat box reeks to high heaven. Both the fish and turtle tanks need cleaned *badly* and Alix is in desperate need of food. The laundry needs done and so do the dishes and I think I’m almost out of cat food.

Last nite I sat with a drunken friend while she told me how lonely she was and how much she missed sex, missed being intimate. My personal opinion is that she has a hard time believing that there can be intimacy without sex. But that’s just my opinion. And it’s not just cuz of this one incident. We’ve talked at short length about her sex life and she agrees with me that it’s not an entirely healthy one. But so be it. I love her still, of course.

Tonite after getting home, a friend IM’d me that she received a call from her ex girlfriend last nite and she just wasn’t handling it well at all.

Tonite driving home from Clinical I was thinking that I was lonely, and that I wouldn’t mind having a girlfriend. No surprise there. But then I remembered that the reason I really am not entirely proactive about finding one is because eventually, down the road at one point, someone’s gonna want me to have sex and stuff. And. Well. No.

I mean. It terrifies me. Not so much as the thought of boysex. But. Still.

And my group of friends…well…things often turn sexual with them. Conversations or movie choices or whatever. And that’s fine, ya know. I mean. Whatever. It makes me *really* uncomfortable but I’m really good apparently at pretending that it doesn’t. Or rather. I’m good at laughing and pretending that I’m shy or embarassed to be talking about such things. But it’s not embarassment. It’s just scary. It’s fear.

And after I got home, I was reading thru my faves and someone wrote an entry about an instance of being molested as a child.

There’s nothing concrete, for me. Not that I want there to be. I mean. If it didn’t, then I don’t. But if it did…then maybe I kind of do?

I’m not good at being in the middle. I’m not good at having questions that will never, ever be answered.

I don’t feel well. Like my insides have all turned to sticky oozing black goo, and it’s making me sick.