i live a deliciously bland life.

so i love this opendiary, as i can’t think of a single soul i know that might read it. i might know one, but honestly we don’t talk much anymore, and it’d be a terrible surprise if he even thought about this from time to time. everyone who used to write on these has moved on to bigger and better things like myspace and facebook, and while i admire the networking of those sites, i always prefer to write here when i’m feeling serious and indulgent (which i am. now.).

all i can think of lately is how horribly boring my life is. in fact, i think it’s everything i used to daydream about avoiding, but it doesn’t bother me as much as i used to think it would. i always saw myself some accomplished woman, without husband or children and completely unattached from everyone i didn’t need. i thought i’d like to be a psychologist or a professor or some brilliant mathematician. i always hated math, but i knew if i worked at it, it could’ve been easier. i was always an english fanatic. in fact, i think i could’ve been decent at anything i could stomach, and possibly excellent at the things i enjoyed.

my problems are a lack of motivation and a long string of bad decisions.

or maybe it’s just my weakness for sexual deviancy.

i don’t regret my children, but i sure would have preferred to have paused this stage in my life and pushed it back a little further. they’re amazing, but i have always felt like a horrible excuse for a mother. i honestly don’t know what i’m doing. i feel like i am feebly putting one foot in front of another on my journey through motherhood, and i’ll definitely never be a PTA soccer mom. i can’t bear the joyousness of motherhood, and the way nearly every mother i meet delights in every aspect of it.

i’m even worse at being a wife.

i love sex, and more importantly, i dislike sex with my husband. well, it’s not that i dislike it, it’s that he doesn’t excite me anymore, and i’m not sure how to fix it. i’m a sucker for perverts, which i’ve just recently discovered, and looking back on things, i think that’s how my husband got my attention in the first place. he’s an oddball. a perverted freak, and i always feel as if there’s a monster lurking under the loving appearance. he’s hurt me in the past so much that it doesn’t matter anymore. i’ve done the same to him.

a lesson to everyone: never cheat. ever. once you do, there’s no return from that world, even if you never do it again. it still follows you, haunting you, an everlasting shadow of distrust.

i think that perhaps my indulging in sex with someone else might be really hurting my marriage, and not in a way that you might think, like an ‘oh you’d break his heart if he found out,’ because it wouldn’t break his heart at all. but i feel as if i am walking away from him every day, further and further, until someday i might not be able to find my way back to him. sex is a very important part of a marriage; i don’t care what anyone says. it is.

it’s pathetic, but i’m trying to quit straying. i don’t want to be a cheater, and not because i don’t want to hurt him. mostly because it takes me away from him – sexually, mentally, emotionally. i’ve resorted to phone sex, and even that i feel a twinge of guilt for (and i suppose i should, too). the nice thing is that i can at least have sex with other women, but there aren’t many attractive women in my town that are into women, as well.

i just want to stop myself from drowning, and i have such a lack of motivation to do so. you’d think i would make more of an effort, but when it comes down to it, all i want to do is sit down and cry and start over somewhere in the past before i was who i am now. i know it’s selfish, but i long so much for a personal freedom i’ll never ever be able to attain. i feel empty and lonely, and i’ve just come to realize it. i’m not in love with my husband, but i’d love to be.

instead i just play video games and work as if i’m a zombie, and there are rare moments when i even feel like a normal person. for christ’s sake, i come home and see my house in shambles, and even that is enough to make me slam my hands down and cry. it’s this horrible repetitive bullshit of a daily lifestyle that i despise. i need excitement, joy, to feel wanted or needed. instead i feel as if a mechanism of some big race to the end of my life, only the pace is a steady walk, and sometimes i just want to sprint towards the end. it’s not suicidal, it’s just that you can see the novel set in stone in front of you, and sometimes you get tired of reading when you already know how it ends.

i don’t even know what i’m saying anymore. at the end of it all, after any moment when i feel as if i’m on the brink of self-discovery, i come to the conclusion that it really doesn’t matter, because the next minute i will have to be composed to keep my family together.