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I have killed people with my lack of sexual desire
I mean, really, I have killed them, they have languished in overheated dorm rooms on Wednesday nights with the bluest balls in the universe, because I would rather be a friend to the world than a lover to one.

have I told you this? I can't remember the last time I wanted physical affection other than long hugs and cheeky kisses.

maybe squeezes of random body parts. but no neck kisses dear, all they do is make me giggle in the theatre because I don't know how to reciprocate anymore, because all libido was forcibly evicted some time ago.

it's gotten to the point where it's ceased to depress me.

thirty-one spasms ago we Did The Right Thing and I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. I've pretty much resigned, though. I've pretty much quit trying to figure out if this is right or wrong in the grand universal sense.

thirty-one spasms ago I named it wreck loose in my unbelievable cleverness. I said things that others were afraid to, I fucked things up, I reached a place of no return. and there's something in the air.

you don't fucking know paranormal, kid, until you've recognized the crazinesses that make me think the way I think.

no, it's not sexual apathy that is depressing me. sexual apathy is probably a product of the depression. and what's depressing me is the separateness of being. I live far away from everything and it's making me tired again. it makes me tired to try. and when I don't try, people get upset and martyrize themselves even more than I do, and it hurts me because I guess I have built my existence around trying to make sure that people are okay and all the while digging myself into the rut of a lifetime because I don't know how to talk to people.

your fingers twitched yesterday and you would not believe my hurt little smile being painfully glad at the fact that we were breathing the same oxygen.