Strange. I am happy and therefore my need for sexual pleasure is brief and intermittent. I have no time for pornography, brief little orgasms like hiccups. It is like the times I have been medicated. Antidepressants minimising the need to a few short moments a week. These moments are fine but without the glorious heights of the orgasms that are experienced in the midst of sadness and insecurity. Happiness has reduced my life to a surface gloss, icing sugar. Sweet and pretty and nothing too deep or too meaningful. Nothing seems as important as this unrelenting happiness.
I will have to trade it in for a dose of melancholy soon or my sex life will become ordinary and my writing will suffer. Today I will dwell on the troubles of the world, read Neitsze, McCarthy, read the news on-line. And eventually I will return to my normal sad and bitter self.
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