Barb was down this weekend. I didn't spend much time with her, since I was rather busy doing anything else, mostly working on the porch.
She looks good. School is going well, and she is really well on the road to healing. I on the other hand am something of a wreck.
I've realized that I'm in a pretty firmly entrenched apathetic mode. I have a hard time working up any energy for anything beyond the bare minimum needed for survival. There are periods here and there that are focused on particular projects like the porch or the movie, but overall I just don't really care anymore. Just kind of going through the motions.
I recognized this a bit yesterday with Sasha. I was doing some flirty stuff with her as I normally do, but I realized even as I was doing it that it was hollow and empty. It was a comfortable pattern, and that was all. She keeps trying to bring me back in with some gentle teasing, but it's just not there: she was mentioning bringing over a bunch of her girl friends and they could get all dressed up in skimpy lingere and have pillow fights, and the first thought that popped into my head was what a mess all of those feathers would be.
It's not to say that I'm unappreciative of the thought of scantily-clad college coeds frolicking about my pantry. On the contrary, the aesthetics make me very happy. But that's just it-- it's only the aesthetic. There is no desire attached to it at all, or at least if there is, it's buried under a couple of metric tons of apathy.
Lately I've thought about becoming a strip club regular. It sounds like the ideal place for aesthetics and apathy to commingle and leave me in a funk. I can be abused by physically appealing women to my heart's content. All I'd really need would be alcohol and various semi-recreational drugs to make the experience complete.
And the thought of waking up naked in bed with a couple of girls with low self-esteem and great asses has made my top ten dream list again and again. There is no content there, no depth, not even carnality. It's that the concept of going out by being fucked to death by a couple of coked-out starlets has a certain appeal of finality.
Yeah. Self-destructive, whoopee shit. Tell me something I don't know.
Look, I'm trying to navigate the waters here. I know it's not real, I know it's not the end result, I know it's all still illusion. But after being steeped in the illusion for a really long time, it starts to become real, you know? It's like the voices in your head: when they keep talking to you for a long time, eventually you start to listen.
Nobody is going to save me. There is no fabulous princess that will come in and sweep me off of my ass and magically change my life in fairy-tale fashion. Any rescuing has to be done by me, and right now it just doesn't seem worth it.