Why do I get this way? By "this way" I mean my libido keeps me awake at night—for several hours. It's not like there's much I can morally do about it. Empedocles drives south, I drive north. I lose myself in the beautiful textures of my childhood, the parts I like to remember. And still, at 2:30 a.m., I wake and I lay there thinking of an alcoholic writer/musician for three hours, unable to do anything about the raging tumult in body and mind.
I'm not even hypomanic. So for all the normal women out there who say they have no interest in sex or who don't want it that often, I think you are fakes. Get over yourselves and your piety.
I did text Empedocles when I got back into town, just to see how his writing is coming this weekend, because that is what we're both supposed to be focused on for Fall Break. That's all I'm going to let myself do. It has to be. Even though I told him I'd check back when I thought I deserved it. Not that I think he'd let me throw myself at him—he is skittish and sometimes hard to read—but I would really hate myself if I did. Kind of. I need to keep putting words on the page, and not this one. The one about granaries and fathers and origins and identity, that is supposed to be 15 pages long by Monday. When that one is done, I need to focus on the 5-page philosophy paper that's due next week. So I have no room to check in or check back or whatever.
Why Empedocles? Why must you own this portion of my brain?