Yesterday. A craggy, ceaseless, mentally violent series of panics, the likes of which sent me to the MRI chamber only to be to ld my brain was “unremarkable.”

I opened this gift of a day by watching soap suds circle the drain. Do they ever go down? I don’t think they did. After turning off the water I think the suds remained on the drain, evaporating, or just holding court, I don’t know which.

But stare and stare I did, those insufferably stubborn suds, joyless specimens of a species that should bring smiles.

I’ve been thinking about a pornographer I used to follow. She disappeared for several months, maybe even a year. She is now pregnant. Her presence is like those soap suds. Joyless. She was always opaque, only showing emotions at or nearing the point of climax. Now she looks like a zoo creature, being watched by people she cannot see. She has a look of longing about her, longing for times of yore when the money poured in and the fun was fun. But it seems no one remembers her, at least not the way I do.

She private messaged me yesterday. I didn’t see it until she had signed off. I’ll see if she still wants to talk next time.

She was a solitude girl, masturbating like a possessed child, as hundreds of men heaped adoration, promises, and money. With a newborn on the way, she will need the money now even more than before.

In her chat room I focused on a line that said “Don’t be shy. Let’s talk and have some fun!” There was an 8-bit animated gif of a disembodied head laughing itself to tears, turning to take a sip of coffee then returning to the chat room. It looked so pitiful yet perfect. Joy is always phony in these pornographer chat rooms.

Yesterday, though. I can’t tell all because it’s too much. I reached an inflated state where a puzzling leaf on a slice of pizza had me thinking it would emerge from my ears after I consumed it with my face. Tensions scoured my body, looking for nerves to pinch and squeeze. Visibly I would have appeared intoxicated, but there was no booze in me. This was like the old days, several years ago, when I was simply walking into walls and doors, unaware of the cause. I know what is happening inside of me this time, even as it seems impossibly trivial.

Now I am met with the conversations between myself and a woman whose interest in me is obvious, but circumstances make it awkward and unrecommended to proceed. I don’t know what she is thinking but I feel the primal inchings, words and laughter are merely funnels for thoughts of bodies touching, tongues entangling, lights turning off. When she said something about “multiple layers” she was referring to something about the corporate bureaucracy here. But with her words I felt her feet touching my legs, her mouth coming closer to mine, and an inevitability that words like these would not be necessary. Using what amounts to a form of code, we were sizing each other up sexually, mining linguistics as a window into the soul of a sexual partner.

She is not exceedingly beautiful but neither am I. She plays with her hair almost constantly when we talk. It gives me thoughts of stroking it when we fuck, if we fuck, I don’t honestly care if we do or not.