I would fuck you...

...but you're too dumb.

Seriously?

Fucking LA

So what do I do? Why is it so hard to get laid in Los Angeles? Is it that women in Los Angeles are so easy, and therefore guys from here stop trying long before they should? Or do they not understand directness? Does a straight-shooting east coast girl turn them off?

I'm going to stay single here until I leave, I can tell.

Two weekends in a row, stood up twice. This is not good. The guys here are flakes, at least any one that's even remotely attractive. The rest are all completely self-absorbed twats. I hate the guys in Los Angeles.

I need to import a boy.

Thousands of miles away...

...and back in LA. Many months later. I came back from that fiendish hellhole to become hopelessly infatuated with possibly the most beautiful schizophrenic man ever.

I got a job.

Things have been going well. The past two weeks a collusion of events have rendered me unemployed, but that is okay. Stereo rotoscoping is a soul-devouring experience anyway. And now I have time to play with the Novation SL 25 that employment has afforded me.

I would say that I am over the trauma of earlier in the year, but it seems that I am feeling longing just as intensely as I was feeling rejection. Except that I far prefer this emotion than the other. I am so intensely infatuated with this new person. However, his disposition only lends itself to an eminently frustrating fugue. I wonder if I am simply projecting my hurt onto this new person, creating this vast gulf between us. But this feeling must go somewhere.

Please UPS, hurry the fuck up with my keyboard.

In the past two days, two very dear friends of mine confessed that they were glad we had never slept together. So am I. However, it is hilarious, in retrospect. Feeling dejected on this rainy day, I put on some Baroque classical music and write.

Oh look — the sun just came out.

Nadir

Last night I walked through the darkest circle of hell. I'm still walking through it, but the dawn has come.

I'm in my boyfriend's apartment. He would contend he's my ex-boyfriend, but I don't remember conceding to that. I'm in a foreign country. He's across town schtupping some chick who's younger, more accomplished and definitely not broke like me.

There's hardly any furniture in this apartment. A foam mattress on the dark hardwood floor, pages of 'Metropolis' strewn about by unshod feet. Snowballs of wadded up tissues. Me, sitting on a not quite inflated yoga ball.

The Shinkansen runs outside across the channel, punctuating the yawning sounds of a Monday morning in Shinagawa, Tokyo. Stark grey light filters in through the window, the only illumination in this purgatory.

I am shaking from the compounded anguish of all my lovers dying, choking me simultaneously. I sit here, with my desolate countenance and my fingers dumbly extended on this keyboard. If only I can keep on typing, then perhaps I won't climb up onto those tracks and take a bullet train through the heart.

I have nothing to say that hasn't been said before. I simply cannot understand or comprehend Sidney actually breaking up with me. It's as if I have wandered down the wrong fork in the road and into a demented funhouse dimension.

Sidney will readily volunteer that I am crazy. Perhaps I am. It is crazy to feel so much, to love so deeply, to put so much on the line with someone like him. It's almost as if I'd never felt this way before, the magnitude of pain. I am wasted and wasting away.