12:49 p.m. - February 21, 2004
I am tired of flying through Chicago. I am tired of being on the West coast and everything I'm hired to do elsewhere.
I've quit this journal in my head.
I slept with Chris last night. And Thursday night. No penetrative sleep, just cuddling and playing and I feel awful. There is something wrong with me when I sabotage every good thing I have going for myself.
Flush, flush, flush: The sound of disposal.
He is a liberal Democrat and a first year lawyer specializing in labor, a romantic who wants children. He has three cats and lives in a loft with huge windows, has a beautiful I'm-from-Kentucky accent. Six foot, great shape, blue eyes, but dyes his hair. I've been lying to him - no boyfriend, I work a hectic schedule and am in class when he calls - and I don't know where I've lost myself. Lying with impunity is relatively new and flinging my conscience aside becomes easier each time. And sex: Since when have I embraced feel-good-here-and-now values? I am not like that. I am not like that. I, too, am part of that phenomenon that desires to assuage or ameliorate terrible soulsucking loneliness with company as lonely as I, a rough tumble jumble in bed and feigned, momentary intimacy and whispers under the covers.
It is time to pull away and reorganize.