actuality.log

Same as the old theme.

After some months of idle planning, I finally commenced the process of sprucing up the journal earlier today. It’s not all there yet—I have a list of some ten significant things that are still broken—but when it’s done, it ought not to look too different from what you’ve known to come and love. I’ve just attempted to simplify and streamline the innards while making it look as consistent as I could across different browsers.

Fixes should be cropping up over the next few days as I go through things and run into problems, but you’re free to point out anything that’s particularly bothersome to you.

Happy reading loyal reader!

I come from a small immediate family, but my extended family more than makes up for it by being exceedingly large and well knit. I come from a community where everyone is overtly curious about everyone else, and consequently does what they do to keep abreast of each others’ lives. I can’t believe I’d forgotten how boisterous they could be, and how much their behaviour got under my skin; my hypersensitive, introverted skin. It’s no surprise that over the years, I’d avoided most of these folk—along with their questions, opinions, judgements and their noise—first blaming the rigours of grad school, and later living far away from them all in some remote part of Europe.

But even that can’t keep their strong tentacles from roping me back in. Here I am, right back in the thick of things: a cousin’s wedding that everyone’s invited to.

As I’d mentioned earlier but did not harp upon, I’ve spent the past few weeks gallivanting across the U.S. And while the first bits of my trip were fun and relaxing—featuring nothing more than tranquillity and intimate moments—subsequent legs of the journey have been steadily spiralling out of control. I’m being overwhelmed by just about everything and everyone, and have this intense urge to flee to somewhere secluded and peaceful. It’s almost as if every bit of news, every offhand remark, every even-if-innocuous question, even the slightest of babels—everything—causes me anguish. I’d spent so long calming down, opening up and realising how it felt to be contended and happy. I can feel it all coming undone.

I really am happy for my cousin. I’m sure it mustn’t have been easy for him to get to this point—is it really easy for anyone?—and I’m excited for him. Sadly, all I’m waiting for is to get back home. Away from all of this and retreating into my own cocoon.

It was the second, perhaps the third, time that night. I had that sinking feeling of despair wash over me as I realised how little of a man I was. As I lay over that beautiful woman—wet and ready with her legs parted in invitation—I found myself doing the unthinkable. I was desperately holding my shrinking cock in my trembling hands and stroking furiously: I needed to be hard again. I needed to feel that wonderful sensation of her pussy lips wrapped around me once more. I needed to feel like the strong man towering over that delicate flower rocking rhythmically as I caressed her chest and face with my own.

I needed to be within her.

I am shrinking some more. Panic is beginning to set in. Her annoyed breaths are turning to sadness as she’s trying to egg me on. “Please,” she sighs, “don’t stroke yourself when you’re over me. Just enter me.” I could have died at that instant. I haven’t felt as little or as inadequate as I did right then. All I wanted to do was to show her how much I loved and needed her. All I ended up doing was to struggle to stay hard and convince her there was something wrong with her form.

I don’t deserve anyone, especially not such a gentle loving creature that adores me so. I don’t know what went wrong, but I am terrified.

Hey, wait a minute. That’s not how this story ended!

However the story did end, the moral of the tale is this: Don’t use newfangled muscle-relaxing, cock-desensitising, stay-hard-for-her-longer condoms.

I don’t know what I did to cause it—I sure as hell don’t lift heavy things—but I seem to have thrown my back. It’s been hurting like hell ever since I woke up last morning, and I’m having a hard time moving around. Or sitting. Or even lying down.

This wouldn’t be so bad if I had nowhere to be, but I’ve had a lot of itty-bitty things to take care of lately—like spending much of last morning in queues at the neighbouring U.S. embassy. Actually, it really wasn’t all that bad, it took less than a couple of hours in total—my back just made it seem a lot longer.

I was there applying for a visa to enter the States. I plan on spending some time at M.I.T. next month and later attending a cousin’s wedding in Georgia (I think). I’m pleased to report that there weren’t any problems or unpleasantries with the visa proceedings, and my travel plans are still on.

While I am in life news mode, I’d also like to report that my mom will be here in a couple of weeks, She plans on spending a few weeks in my home before heading off to the U.S. (separately, we’ll rejoin after my M.I.T. stint) to partake in the festivities of the aforementioned wedding. I need to make my home a tad more habitable (like buying a few chairs!) before she gets here, and figure out fun things to show her, but that’s not the direction I want to take this tale.

I gingerly broached the subject of her needing to draw as much enjoyment from this wedding as she could—for she wasn’t going to experience any of it at her own son’s. I’m nearly certain I’m not having a wedding wedding even if I ever were to get married, and she should have her fill of festivities elsewhere. At this point, I was expecting a disappointed tone on the other end of the phone, or at least a solemn talking-to—but nothing. Instead, she nonchalantly goes, “Oh, but I’ve always known that. You’ve been hinting ever since you were four that you felt weddings were a waste of time and money. And I tend to agree with you.”

I don’t know why people don’t believe me when I tell them I’ve always felt jaded and old.