Sure, it's been a while.  But I'm not dead yet.

Officially, I am largely weakened by women. Slight smile.  If I make you laugh...  I'll take anything you want to give me...  I can tease you, make fun of you gently, make fun of myself severely... yes yes, I am 60 years old, I swear... you don't believe me?  That fine, just keep giggling and leaning into me.  Bring your brown hair near my face so I can smell the scent of your shampoo.  Here, check my ID, I really was born before the 70's.  No, hon, that' means I'm almost 40, not 50.  It's okay, who can do math after as many drinks as you've had?  Sure I'll take an apologetic hug.  Um, then I'm gonna go home.  Time to bashfully go.

It's been a rollercoaster in my head for the past several weeks.  The additional input of Facebook and friends far away has pretty much maxxed me out.  Perhaps I was hiding too long in the realm of Just Not Caring, or perhaps just caring about myself.

So this big, bad, 3-D world where people interact is just dangerous.  Dangerous to my feelings, and potentially dangerous to theirs as well.  I'm up, I'm down, I want more, I want less.  It's nutty.  As nutty as I am, even if completely undiagnosed.

I spent time today at a co-worker's house, installing stuff on her home computer so she can work from there.  She's undergoing chemo, after a mastectomy, and dealing.  Her husband is one year past a horrific stroke and brain hemmorage that has amazingly left him alive, but different.  She says to me, I don't know how much more I can take.

I tell her that the Rabbis say God only tests those who can handle it.  She says she thinks they don't know squat.  I focus on not crying.

Ya know, big picture-wise, my life is golden.  Sure, I'm occassionally lonely.  Sure, I could use a hug.  Or something.  But I've got a job -- with all it's stresses intact -- and both my legs work, and both of my arms, and my hands.  And I can bang out an awesome rhythm.

Life is just fine.

It's official.  I think it was official last night.  I just sort of came to terms with it this morning.  I am in a needy state.  I need attention and am dying for affection.  I'm frisky and horny as hell.  I'm post-menstrual... it's probably an artifact of my ovaries screaming, in general. 

Still, needy.  Lonely.  And slightly depressed about all the things I need to do.

Work looms largely.  I've got four days this week to do what I can and take a week off.

Hebrew -- tho it is my love -- also nags at me for attention.  I should be practicing.  At least watching some Israeli movies or something. 

Instead I play Rock Band.  I'm on a timer, so I keep trying to squeeze as much as possible in.  I smoke.  I went to the pub to watch the football game and I had 4 pints of beer.  Light beer, sure, but beer nonetheless.

So, four pints and two bowls later, I'm chattering here.  Pet me, please!  I notice that I respond *too much* when I'm needy, almost like I have to get the last word, except that I'm hoping mine isn't the last.  Too talkative, too aggressive.  I almost told the waitress at the bar that she was beautiful.  Instead I just smiled sweetly and said thank you a lot.  That really gets 'em:  thank you.