Last night’s commute snafu could have been funny if it wasn’t so fucking irritating. At Queensboro Plaza the announcer says this train will go express. That’s not uncommon but what was unusual was that this time, instead of going express to Astoria Boulevard then on to Ditmars, we were going to stop at Broadway instead. Is it even possible to go express from Queensboro Plaza to Broadway? It probably is but I’ve never seen it happen, and I’ve still never seen it happen after yesterday’s rookie mistake. For all the confidence and half-hard gusto he brought to the announcement the dude was just completely wrong. Arriving at Astoria Boulevard the announcer followed through, saying “This is Broadway.” There was anger, laughter, irritation, with everybody, it seemed, trying to get the best punchline in. “Broadway sure looks different today,” or “Rookie mistake” are punch lines I heard. Someone ripped one of the conductors a new one, screaming “This is not Broadway”, but it’s not clear if that was the conductor who made the bad announcement, repeatedly, I might add.

It made me 20 minutes late but what does it matter? What else would I have done with those 20 minutes besides masturbate and drink beer? But other people seemed genuinely irate and genuinely late after believing the errant conductor who has no idea where Broadway in Astoria is.

Dreams were sprawling epics. Paramilitary operations going on in underground bunkers along 36th Avenue, where family members and friends of a woman I dated for 8 years congregate. The woman of 8 years never existed, nor did the family, but they felt real in this sweeping dream. The woman’s mother told me she loved me. I said “I love you too,” and I meant it. She was 60+ years old and reminded me of the Chinese woman I briefly dated before Covid. In the dream she said I was trying to ruin her 20 years of marriage. She’d been married over 40 years. I corrected her. She smiled placidly.

Two qualities of my dreams in full bloom last night are the sprawling epic nature of things, and the profound sense of loss I feel upon losing a bag or an object. This time it was a bag filled with pornographic pictures of myself, mostly alone but the bag also contained a quantity of the infamous facefucking videos I made with a woman some years ago. I say infamous because I would have bet cash money and sworn under oath that I deleted all that stuff when the relationship ended, because I honestly believed I had shredded, destroyed, and annihilated all the hours of videos and hundreds of photos. I don’t remember when or how it transpired but one night there I was, horrified, looking at videos I was certain had been destroyed, not wanting to look but unable to look away. I was happily surprised The videos were sweet. Two growed-up adults just having fun with each other. She really loved cock and that’s where she spent much of the time but the slow facefucking was also pleasant to see. I got itchy about it all and did, once and for all, follow through on the promises I made to rid the world of this shit. I drunkenly imagined connecting with her again and describing this incident but that never took place.

In the dream I lost a bag filled with those type of images and videos. I had no fear of it being made public. I wouldn’t care if the abovementioned videos somehow got out there, at least not on my account. Obviously I would not want to jeopardize her safety. If it was just solo videos of me I wouldn’t have much of a problem with it. Plenty of nude dudes out there. But in the dream the feeling of loss was like a never-ending waterfall, like the feeling of sinking and loss I get when I look at the Pits across the street. Do we call them Pits? I know after the attacks the rubble and eventual holes were called the Pits. But do we call the waterfall monuments The Pits? Why do I care if “we” call them anything. I call them the Pits, down into which the memory of those who died that day perpetually slip away without ever really leaving.

I might not make it through this work day. I feel edgy and unrested, even though I slept long hours and ate well. I took 1.5mg Lorazapam and the usual BP meds. Yesterday was 2mg of Loraz, and I felt calm and mellow most of the day. I remembered yesterday the time I had accupressure ear thingies pressed into my ears. I didn’t put them in, the former PCP did. An hour later I realized that I felt as calm and serene as any time I could remember. I could revisit those but they are not much of a fashion statement, and I would get unwanted attention for the ugly-ass shiny things cluttering up my ears.

Do I want serenity? I don’t know. My mind functions differently when influenced by these meds. My body slows down with the BP meds. I have not had the shakes in a long time. Well, wait, I did get that condition a couple of weeks ago, after a trigger. It was no fun. I thought I was past all that, and I keep telling myself I am, to the exclusion of remembering that it still happens. Selective memory.

I get some serioudental work done next week. I finally get what no other insurance could ever get me. A custom-fit mouth guard, for the bruxism that cost me two teeth during Covid’s teeth-grinding overdrive era. Then I’ll get a “Deep Clean,” which sounds like it will be no fun but it should fix what ails me. I have no cavities but during Covid I grinded so much and didn’t brush at night. I never floss, but I did procure a water flosser which promptly failed to work.

Something else that failed to work is my shower cam. I plug it in, a red light lights, then a blue light for just a half second, then nothing. The camera never activates, depriving the world more hours of my time spent showering and masturbating in the tub. I take some comfort in making those videos. In case anything bad happens there will be evidence to erase any speculation. I have not had time to figure out why that camera stopped working but I’ll look into it. I briefly shared the live stream with a dominatrix but that relationship did not last long. I was OK with everything until she suggested I financially support her. She didn’t suggest, she demanded. I have read that this is part of being a sub, or at least it can be. Nothing doing in this case. Cannot get water from a stone, but even if I had money I wouldn’t get into another situation like I was in for 3 years, paying for virtually everything. How did I ever let that happen?