I'm on men today.

Not literally of course. Earlier I walked down the hall after a man who wears a particularly strong, though not unpleasant, cologne. I don't even like cologne. I prefer the natural state of things. Yet that unmistakable smell of man brought tears to my eyes. Plus moisture elsewhere.

You know what ruined dating? Psychology. Back in the day, a man liked the smell of a woman, dragged her back to his cave, and they would fuck, hunt, and raise little cave babies.

There was no feminine drama or male reluctance. No "what are you thinking about?" or "I'm just not a commitment guy."

It was all instinct. No questions asked. Now, thinking is great and all - but I think (hehe) that we constantly underestimate instinct in favor of hyperanalysis. Dumb. We are animals, too. Don't forget.

I want to add here that I know this is totally a case of me, the pot, calling myself, the kettle, black. The entire theme of this little site is thinking too much. But I hope that by identifying this issue I can work against the 21st century tendency and start acting on impulse and intuition again. Get back to my baser self, as it were.

Sorry - due to a lapse in health insurance, I'm off my meds so my ovaries are killing me. One would assume I wouldn't want to have anything to do with sex and sexuality right now, but the discomfort's just diverting my attention downstairs.

This all brings me back to Glenn Ford. I have Glinda from the library, waiting on my shelf at home. In this condition, however, I might just have to rain check it.