don't know

There's something missing, and I don't know what it is.

I'm sitting in Omst's high-ceilinged living room in the Mission District. He's kindly letting me use one room as a temporary SF weekend crash pad. Mariachi music is coming in through the street-facing window. The other side of the apartment thumps with a dance beat from the bar below.

Forgive this post, gentle readers, for not being organized. It's past midnight, and the witching hour runs high. Tonight I will blog the way I used to, when no one else was going to read it. Aimlessly, recklessly.

Last night Christina and I went to two parties. We tried to go to a third, an Asian dance party at Ana Mandara, but the club wanted a $30 cover for one hour (we got there at 1am). Christina says we might've gotten free tickets if we took off our coats and flirted with the bouncers (while shivering in our party outfits). But I wasn't in the mood. Sometimes that feels like you're prostituting yourself, and very cheaply at that.

Our flirting is worth at least $40! Plus tax!

On the ride back, Christina pointed out how the party looked fun and maybe there were really amazing Chinese guys there and now that I'm all into Chinese guys, perhaps it was worth $30.

I thanked her for making that helpful comment after we'd already driven most of the way home. And I pointed out that I'm dating a Chinese guy already. But of course that particular basket is full of obstacles and complications, and doesn't seem safe for putting all my long-term eggs into. As it were.

But he is very sweet.

Extremely sweet.

This afternoon I went to the Asian Art Museum. I felt surprisingly tired. I went straight to the ornate Samsung room, and sat on the couch for thirty minutes. Either I'm hung over after a mere two drinks last night, or my body didn't actually recover from my illness two weeks ago. Then I went in the bathroom and sat in there, reading, for fifteen minutes.

After I toured the museum (the manga exhibit was pretty good), I took the bus back to Omst's place.

Now I'm here, and much of my life seems bleached. Where is the color? Yes, the parties are lovely, and the food is delightful, and the drinks are posh, and the people are kind, and the decor is lavish, and what is the point?

Occasionally I get into a mood where it's exhausting to deal with people. Having to talk to another person, in the flesh, is too tiring. I want to tell them to please stop talking to me, and send me an email instead. I can handle crafting a written response.

There are a few people who are not tiring. My brother, of course. And a few other friends that I've known for many years. Maybe I should stop going out and collapse my social circle to five people.

Then I can get my piglet Oinksy, and become known as that weird recluse with the pig.

I don't know how to fix this feeling. It's a weariness, with a dash of isolation. Previously I tried relaxing all weekend in bed, watching movies and surfing the internet. That got lonely. Going to parties, ineffective.

Writing is still good. And reading. But it's like when you stay up two nights in a row, and then you are only able to take a two-hour nap. It just reminds you how much you're missing.

Good thing my readership is not the type to suggest that I look to the Lord to deliver me, lost sheep, into the righteous path.