June 2012

I can’t get hard reading erotica by someone I can’t imagine fucking.

Jealousy, for me, boils down to the fear that I don’t exist — and that a woman holds the power to confirm it.

Folly is making a late-game push, and I’m not sure I’m rooting for wisdom.

I seem to have a gift for giving offense where none was intended — and I’m not done yet.

Twenty minutes. Go.

Illness, recovery, and the slow return of desire — for sex, for writing, for being myself.