I reflect on my lack of passionate, spontaneous sex and the losses inherent in any particular sexual configuration.

I keep telling myself a story, using various women, in which I do everything right but am still left, feeling somehow at fault and unable to prevent or repair the loss.

I fucking love what AI has made possible. Check this out! You can see all the pictures associated with all the posts associated with any individual tag, all at once. You can even make a little slideshow!

I want to consciously allow myself to fantasize about sex, scenarios, and people—regardless of possibility or appropriateness—while reminding myself that imagination does not require action.

I’m producing more work than ever thanks to AI, but I’m overwhelmed by unfinished drafts, a sense of online obsolescence, and my own mortality.

Fascism is here. The Democrats are responsible. They haven’t presented an alternative.

The AI universe is filled with enshittification.

I’m using AI to turn an unshareable fantasy into a symbolic dream, drawing on Freud’s theories to preserve privacy and allow expression.

I’ve been investing in myself with more solitary, even solipsistic, forms of sex and sexuality. Maybe this is a little bit about my growing older… All I know is that there’s a distinct shift and ebbing.

I fantasize about reuniting the women from last year’s sapphic soiree to create a better-directed reprise, even though the fantasy feels unrealistic.