my teeth still taste like Code Red...

I am forcing water... I am not all that thirsty, in fact, I feel no thirst at all, but I am forcing water into my gut through the pipe attached to my mouth... I have very gooey chocolate cake in there... along with almost as gooey melted cheese and pasta and tomatoe sauce and eggplant and lots of bread... not very gooey bread, but bread is kind gooey on it's own... the body has shut down most precesses, as the brain recovers from the previous entry, or sugar-caffeine hangover, whichever came first...

the body needs exercise... and passion... and sex... probably in that order, especially since there is little passion for me without physical fitness... the more optimal the better... unless you're Janeanne Garofalo, but that's another oddity of the theory of my libido as yet untested... you remember my libido, don't you?... write for the website, it may one day actually be less narcisstic than it appears... and who (and what) turns you on?... come on, you know you have a list somewhere in the dark corners of your mind, you just haven't had the audacity to put it up on the web... well, then again, some of you... I've seen (cover your eyes if you're prudish about language) fuck-lists on some sites... I suppose, when the thin viel of romantic fantasy is removed, that is what libboland is... my own personal fuck-list (libbo cringes, then laughs)...

meanwhile, at the moment, I feel like the couch under a professional couch potato that has seen years of carrying professional couch potatos (and that, for me, is about as far from a turn on as it gets)... lethary, you are my master... more water...

of course the water will just make me hungry, eventually... and then I'll repeat the process that got me here, sliding down the slippery slope toward America's favorite pasttime, obesity... I read somewhere that being thirty pounds over your ideal wait qualifies you as obese... it is strange that I can be considered obese when my arms and legs are considered almost laughably skinny (at first glance, at least, before the well defined chiselled musclulature jumps out at the unsuspecting onlooker)... you know that commercial for that juice-drink product where the guy is hoping the girl across the courtyard will look through her window and catch him drinking the juice?... yeah, that one...

this preoccupation with this body may be the result of the exceptionally good sex I had with myself earlier... hey, us lonely folk take what we can get... and I gave it to myself darn well for a change... used to be every day, at least one of the self-love flings I'd have with myself would take off like bicentennial fireworks, at least... but lately, there's been a lull in the explosive nature of my relationship with this body... I think it's feeling alienation cuz I spend too much time giving myself oral pleasure, that is, taste bud orgasms, and not enough time giving it muscle rushes and sensual strokes and more balanced loving... know what I mean?...

anyway, I figured it was about time I sat here very comfortably in my big green chair and rambled on a bit... my mind apparently needed a good dump...

more water...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)