Moving Out

Moving out sucks.

Moving out sucks, a lot.

I love this apartment. The way the light at sunset shines through the great big windows in the bedroom. The way the breeze comes in from all directions through the open screen doors. Maybe there is a reason there are still picture frames and posters lined on the floor against the wall, still waiting to be hung. There was never enough time, never enough motivation...never enough power tools. I hope that is not symbolic of our relationship.

He won't have sex with me. Won't, can't, doesn't want to; not sure which is worse. Again, I'm surprised at my reaction, however. He's seriously deranged if he does not find me completely drop dead gorgeous and sexy beyond belief. I have worked incredibly hard to look the way I do now, I am muscular, strong yet smooth around the edges and still have plump in all the right places. Sex with me is not boring. And in all fairness, I am the man in the relationship. I want to spice it up all the time, I want the skanky clothes and the kinky games. What is wrong with this picture? Either this really truly is depression or I need to search for someone else to hold my heart.

The problem is, I don't want to have sex with any other person; the thought makes me queesy. In Scarlett O'Hara fashion...I'll think about it tomorrow.