I think about s** most of the time. I don’t do it because everything is amiss in that regard. I want to be fucked, constantly. Wildly and Romantically. The person I should be having s** with is rarely up to it and I am weary of asking. Hell, I can’t even do it anymore without feeling emotionally uncomfortable and unattractive. I feel like an old lady, like one of those old wives that’s kept on a shelf. The husband is aloof and elsewhere while she reads novels and collects metaphorical dust. I’m not even that old and I feel like a damn spinster. A spinster who is married. I swear, nothing s***** exists unless everything happens just-so every other f****** month. When I can drink again, I’ll be glad of it.