Slept tons yesterday. Fitful with nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat, and I am wondering if I'm teetering on imminent depression. 'Course it doesn't help that I've missed a couple of days workout this week. I am an endorphin junkie, one of the relatively few benevolent addictions I have managed to maintain, and like ciggarettes and pot, I am loathe to give up. Ciggarettes will go. Soon come, bubba, soon come.

I will do two-a-day workouts today and tomorrow, and see where that leaves me. If I am to skulk about, unable to lure a succulent hottie to my side because of my brooding upon the caprices of fate, I might as well look good doing it.

I must be at some sort of low point, 'cause I've taken to filling out internet surveys and tests, and badgering other d-landers with my advice and opinions, which are professional and not cheap. Its a sick compulsion. The only thing worse than bandying my life about like commerce and show, is to comment on others doing the same, but at a higher level of presentation.

I do not hold ill will, or look askance at others who do this. That is for them, this is ME, and I have spent my whole life as a keeper of secrets, which is why I felt I needed to do this in the first place. I have kept my blotted soul from the sun for far too long. And now that I've done it for three months, fancy that I can see through the bullshit to reach out and...and... what? What fucking use is it, anyway? I have helped plenty of people in my life, and the rest is for me.

Perhaps its jealousy, because my content is fine, but the html gods do not love me. I am their bastard son, left out of the will, and stuggling to survive in internet chat rooms, like a hooker in a Singapore hump-hump dive who's never quite able to get the taste of sailor jism out of her mouth, I may never get this blight off of my conscience, this failure of html skills, confounded by the rat bastard message- oops! you forgot to link to diaryland!-...no fuckin' shit, Creskin.

On the lighter side, a sex-test I took on thespark.com, says according to stats, my attitudes, and history, I will have thirteen more lovers in my life, I will fall in love with three, and someone somewhere is secretly in love with me.

Several things disturb me about this. First and foremost is the number. I am a lover by trade, and fucker by profession. I am not prolific in the numbers department, because I prefer to know someone well, rather than have a two week fling. That, and I am a ROMANTIC. I love all the girls who have been goodly enough to sleep with me in some way, and three seems peculiar. I used to say in college that I fell in love at least eight times a day. This may be true, but my heart has become weary and tired after being broken too many times. Like a prizefighter developing parkinsons near the end of his career, it sits in my chest and trembles, not so much from FEAR, but SHOCK and LOATHING that I would expose it repeatedly to so much abuse.

Of it all, the thirteen seems to be the most accurate expression of my seemingly cursed love life, if only in a superstitious way.