Two women in my hands in as many days and I do nothing.
It's a fascinating thing to be disgusted with and proud of myself.
On the one hand, I look at me and see a pathetic weakling who possesses the hidden tools to be capable of anything I will and refrains out of cowardice. I see beauty around me daily, physical and psychological, and my sex drive is more starved Calista Flockheart. At times it's as if repression is changing me into an animal.
On the other, I look at me and see an individual who can no longer willingly engage in emotionally meaningless courtship and sex. The emptiness after such endeavors is draining on a spiritual level, like I have forsaken my morals and my dignity.
What's more, these conflicting miniature tempests of frustration have made me angry beyond belief. I have to literally stop myself from putting my fist through walls and people, especially when they seem out to confound and impede me. Hopefully the therapy and the exercise can relieve some of my rage.
My favorite and simultaneously least favorite part is that I love the passion. The anger is empowering beyond belief and tests my restraint to its absolute limits. I am forced to wrestle my ego down and endlessly contemplate the contrasting nature of my emotions. It impels me physically and intellectually, and like some absurd case of Stockholm syndrome, I don't know if I can truly let it go.
But hey, my plan has always been to be dead by 50, so mayhaps this will end up finishing the job.
