Plathological

"This is Sex Without Touching"

The amount of cushions, pillows, and throw-rugs I currently have in my possession would seem to imply that my life is pretty fantastic right now. One day, perhaps soon, I will succeed in this triteness everyone keeps telling me I fail at, again and again. I really do see it as a stain on my reputation. Though I am becoming more comfortable in balancing. Often, this year, there were certain settings where I feared saying anything at all in the presence of others because I was wary of being perceived as too intense, which I've been told is a marked trait of mine. Or maybe that wasn’t what was happening at all. In any case, most of the time, I discovered I started to become a lot more comfortable expressing myself orally if I was drunk. That interpersonal theory originated this last summer; I was in this play that ran for a couple of weeks and I would get drunk before each show and was ecstatic about the secretive drinking process; no one could know what went into me-- dingy pubs with no wine list, or a bottle of Zinfandel or Chardonnay at home. Sometimes Riesling. I seem to recall, now, my shrink being concerned about how much I was drinking at that time and for what reasons. I'm not even sure how to describe last summer--acting and nightshifts, phone sessions with my shrink that often reached the four hour mark. This will give you an idea of how I divided my days. There was also the writer's festival, the di prima workshop in July. Substances, substances. And when I became a forty-something woman named Julie who had a degree in philosophy, specializing in Kierkegaard--I liked to garden, apparently. I also marked things down in my day timer, coffee dates among them. & the unevolved man who was actually willing to give it a shot with a twat like Julie as opposed to binding me to his side--thankfully, of course, everything worked out in my favour because he turned out to be an even greater twat than anyone. God, there are so many men out there that are cripples & so I kind of start to flutter when I see something in one of them, in a very scant once-in-a-while. You can just sense it, and dangerously, it can be in so much as a phrase. It’s like I was saying last night, and I hated to bring it up: men have the problem of either thinking too much with their dicks or too much with their heads. You can tell if a man is evolved if he thinks with a good balance and counterweight of both. The last one I was with was much too tangled in his mind. I just don’t know where his dick went to. And this analysis has nothing to do with sex drive, per say, more so with mode of operation. I should be writing letters to Molly B. every fucking day. I mean, right? What, Dear Molly, what replaces sex? I've told you mine.

Holy shit: where did this entry come from? It’s kind of making me uncomfortable. I find it offensive. Is it offensive in some way?? I've actually, or surprisingly, have never gone to class drunk and I'm really not sure why. Certainly not because I didn't want to. I had big plans for the purchase of a very specific flask, but I never went back to get it. I just found it easier, in the sense of more covert, to carry alcohol around in water or pop bottles--containers that weren’t meant for my purpose, used to be for something else, entirely.