My apologies for everyone who was getting "access denied." I have to move this site off of the old janky server it's been bumbling around on for the past three years, but it's a project I just haven't found time for yet.

So for what it's worth I wasn't trying to put anybody on lockdown.

Birthday Week!

Oh wow. This is fucking amazing. You have to click on the Archive links at the right to go more than four posts back, but it looks like a year or more of solid gold.

G-D it, this is why I love the internet. Stellar knockout writing, foulmouthed and perverse, and no dang gatekeepers. Content makes me miss NYC, too.

And also, my sister has a new bit up that's really good. On another level, really.

The above image is from a French AIDS awareness campaign. I saw it somewhere and it stuck me, so I saved it for a racy mental-exhibitionism post like this. Gotta love those people and their culture

So, as I mentioned before, I'm "adrift on the seas of celibacy." It's not a bad thing, and (again) as I said I don't like to complain about it; I've had a lucky life in love, and somewhere deep down I trust that this will all work out.

What I do feel like writing about though is the psychological state/journey that I find myself in/on as a result of this moment.

There's a critical lack of desire, of fantasy. I believe intellectually that sex can be fun, but at the moment I don't seem to be living the belief that it can be fun for me. I don't know why this is, really. I haven't had some bad or souring experience, just a period -- approaching a year now -- of relative isolation, self-imposed.

The self-imposition, by the way, goes beyond my choice of where I live. As much as this place is small, the overwhelming empirical evidence shows it's not without a population of babes, and yet I do nothing. Why is this?

This feeling of "not believing in it for me" reminds me of a point a couple of years ago where I felt the same way about love generally. That was a darker point, at the nadir of a rebound. This is nowhere near as dire, but the lack of an apparent reason is frustrating. What is it that's keeping me from feeling the flutter, from fantasizing, from having some fucking fun?

I was lying awake last night trying to really follow this thought. "What is your fantasy?" I asked myself. I'm not sure right now.