Worked late. Went to the store. Got home. Ate dinner. Had a couple glasses of wine. Watched a couple episodes of a TV show from five years ago that I just got from Son 2. Went to bed. Masturbated. Drank two shots hard liquor. Ate snacks. Back to bed.
And you know, I didn't need to do any of it. I wasn't even hungry for dinner.
So all of it -- the whole evening -- was just distraction. To keep my mind busy. Why? To avoid feeling ... ummm, whatever-it-is. In the past in this blog I've called it "anxiety" but that's not really right. "Anxiety" sounds like I'm worried about what's going to happen, or about my to-do list, or something, and none of that's true. It's not loneliness -- the boys were staying with me through yesterday and I would have felt the same thing, only it would have been masked by talking to them. And I might not have drunk as much, nor had the late night snacks. Nor masturbated. (It's a small apartment without much privacy.)
What's the point of all the activity, then? Beats the shit out of me.
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