Tired.

Back from Vicki's, met an interesting fellow named Ryan, and dammit, I need to update this with something that at least resembles an interesting entry, neh? But all I've got for now is cold-medication-induced murmurs.

Worries.

Stress.

I'm finding the thought of cutting to be more and more appealing... no matter how much I try to talk myself out of it, it keeps sounding... I don't know. Refreshing. Relieving. Pure. Necessary.

No, I'm not cutting now. No, I don't intend to do so in the immediate future. But yes, it's getting more and more difficult NOT to go find a razorblade when the moment hits and all I can think of is how easily blood would flow out of a set of five or six nice deep cuts... here... here... here...

...and then reasons, beautiful perfect reasons, tumble into place and the desire is so far away I am stunned that I thought of it at all.

Hard to find any need to cut, when I have such perfect slaves, perfect lovers, perfect friends and partners and mates and toys. They are mine, my boys, MINE.

Smile.

Dance.

And the problems and the illnesses and the worries... fade.

Can't hold out against that beauty.