  as accurately calculated, tonight is not one for me to spend asleep. in fact, i'm somewhat encouraged to spend the entire night awake. i fancy spending the early morning hours in the hot tub. yes, the newly healed 4-5" scar says "no soaking," but i'm prepared to do this all with one foot out.
once upon a time, i had a crush on a dear, sweet woman who came into my life both as an authority figure who upheld sobriety as well as an object of fanciful imaginings for little ol' me. And now I have ocular proof for more than the now-unknown cohorts of mine who "graduated" treatment along with me. yet i withhold the images. not until i have clearance from her to post them here. makes me wonder what would have come of claudia had i never made love to her. had i never seen her after our time together at that place of iniquity. would she too be advertised alongside a beautiful man, proporting to spread good will among the masses? no, jeanne has and will always be entirely separate from what i encountered with claudia. but what if? claudia always asked me what makes her different in my mind from this woman, jeanne. and i always balked with my response. hard to tell someone you're involved in an illicit affair with that it's due to that relationship at its primary level.
"what makes her different is that i never got off with her. " ma lord, is this woman looking 2x more amazing than even my most wondrous memories have afforded me. and good for her. she has this pretty man she's paired with. beautiful. who has always seemed like the sensitive soul and perfect counterpart to her sensual being. of course, i like to think i could offer her a more pleasurable world -- but only in bed. i've not much more to offer aside from a deep-pocketed dowrey.
and some deep-seeded suspicions about psychologist and their trade to cause more than an evening's worth of discord. what i wouldn't do to go for a mid-night run right now. to strap on my boots and tear around that carpet of new grass at our school's pitch. even alone, tossing in corner kicks and letting my imagination constitute the headers and deflections to make the netting curl. jsut for a moment in bounds for me to create a run... to open up space for another play to transpire.
to talk a little shit with a homophobic opponent. for a quick shot on goal that went speeding past the keeper. to replay the years of Vogelsinger. no one on this site but Amy will be able to appreciate that reference, my memories of the best/hardest i've ever worked to be a quality player, a week at a time each July. just to show up on a patch of grass early in the morning and do my pre-breakfast two-hour workout. i miss the poetry of futball. i spoke with Moukhlis last week about our shared passion of the game, and i had tears in my eyes about it when i went to sleep that night.
and since last week, i've fallen asleep with sobs for the same loss as described above. the creative aspect, the interplay between all of us... my team... the one thing i was always sure of my brilliance in playing. my bread and butter. writing can't hold a candle to what i used to feel after a "perfect game.
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