Do you actually feel?

Last night I sat around in my apartment and contemplated going to the orgy.

There's this regularly-occuring orgy in some far-flung suburb , hidden on some nondescript frontage road behind the facade of a banal, camouflaged condominium development.

The temperature was -10 below zero.

I also thought about going to the gym and instead I did neither. I ate dinner. Twirled in front of a mirror, naked, to find the angel at which I look the thinnest.

Stared out the window at traffic.

Before going on antidepressants, I'd spent a night like this in front of the computer, cruising the online hook up sites for sex, looking at porn, hitting poppers now and then, jerking off for hours and hours until my nose was raw and it was three in the morning and I had nothing left; then finally my dick would leach something out of my body, somethine week and zygotic.

Nowadays, on medication, I spend those sorts of evenings eating chocolate-covered raisins, drinking lemonade, and playing Star Wars Battlefront.

This morning while showering I asked myself whether this was an improvement or not. I think it is.