Rejection

I tossed off a quick answer about loneliness, then spent the next few hours realizing I was wrong about myself — and tracing the line from rejection to shame to paying for the very rejection I was trying to escape.

She disappeared slowly, then all at once. I miss her.

She stood me up two nights in a row, and two nights in a row, I let her. This isn’t a complaint about her — it’s an observation about me.

I used to crave rejection. Now I crave an endless supply of its opposite. Neither, it turns out, is available forever.

A woman I’ve never met rejected me, and my body knew it before my mind did.

The feeling I fear most is the one I’ve spent years seeking out.

I’m unnervingly talented at engineering the rejection I claim to fear most.

A granular deconstruction of the ritual of visiting massage parlors — from the craving, to the wave of inevitability, to the Blackberry full of taxonomies.

This blog creates a distorted picture of me as a hypersexual free agent. The truth is far more complicated, and far more interesting, and it starts with T.

She wanted the offer, not the items on offer.