I can look over at my shelves next to the desk where I have the Tare Panda Laptop and see...Lonely Planet guides. Mongolia, Budapest, Vienna, Turkey, Western Balkans, Morocco, the Baltics. I suppose that says something. I so desperately need to get out of here. I need to travel; I need to escape. I don't want to die alone, and I don't want to die here, or monolingual by default. I do envy the Tuareg of the high desert. I envy Wm. Gibson expats. One carry-on and a laptop. Just...walk away. I do envy that.

A friend is writing a book about her experiences with mental illness and the mental health system. She noted that she wanted it to be a lot lighter in tone that it was turning out, but that "there's not really a lot funny about an anorexic eleven-year-old girl." Someone (not me) commented at her Facebook by saying, "Well, there could be...if she had a wacky imaginary friend." My first thought was...well, yes. And I sighed in disappointment. If I'd had a wacky imaginary friend, my life could've been very different. I might've been an invisible ninja. Or married Elizabeth Bennet. Or not been too afraid to have done anything with either the PhD or my JD.

Yes, I'm well aware of the fact that my response to the "wacky imaginary friend" line is just one more reason why I'm going to Hell.

Presence and affection... I really do miss presence and affection in my life. I miss Voices calling to remind me to hydrate and to take my multivitamins. I miss Voices calling to let me read to them late at night. I miss a gentle playfulness. I miss believing that there are Voices that do call just to be concerned, just to wonder if I'm okay. I miss thinking that someone looks forward to hearing my voice. I miss thinking that I'm valuable to someone.

There was always the word You. That's always been something I loved--- a lovely girl coming into my arms and saying, "Hey, You." Always with affection and gentleness. I miss waking up next to someone and brushing her hair off her forehead and just saying, "Hey, You..."

I've never been anyone's beau mec, and it's been a long time since a girl sent me an e-mail that just said, "Hey, boyfriend." That's something that I miss: random, romantic e-mails or texts. Heather at karaokekatey used to send texts that asked, "Mind if I sexually harass you by text?" She's among the Missing, now. Somewhere in Iowa. I haven't heard from her in months. The Other Melissa at kraftig_bewegt used to text things like "you are my Balinese dalang" to me. I haven't heard from her since April. Ioana at winterbymorning used to send texts from the McGill library; I'll never hear from her again. I have no idea why the Other Melissa at kraftig_bewegt hates me, or why Ioana at winterbymorning so quickly Vanished. I miss their voices. I miss being valued. I miss having friends.

Summer feels so dreadfully claustrophobic. Too hot to go out, too hot to do anything. I feel too socially awkward to go down to the pool if anyone else is there. Everything is just...behind glass. Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo has the Russian bar in her neighbourhood where she goes to drink when she's sad and isolated. I mostly just stay here and drink. I'll spend money on a half-dozen bottles of white wine or shochu, but I hate spending money at bars. And I hate standing there alone, without the ability to fit in or talk to anyone.

One of the things I hate most about the way Lissy at emigree just Vanished was that her Stories were cut off mid-way. I'd read her for three years. She was such a wonderful character in her own Stories, a wonderful narrative voice. And then...gone. Just as she was readying herself to leap out into a new world. I hate not knowing how her Stories and Adventures will play out. I hate not knowing what happens in the roman fleuve of Lissy's life. It's like having the whole Patrick O'Brian series and having someone take away the last ten or twelve volumes. Will Captain Jack be reinstated in the Royal Navy? Will he ever hoist his flag as admiral? Will Dr. Maturin get Diana Villiers back? This wonderful voice is just...gone. I'll never know via emigree what new life Lissy creates; I'll never read the stories she writes for anatomyoflovers. Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo once wrote me to say that she loved Lissy's voice, and that Lissy would make a great best friend or girl-crush. The voice at emigree, Miss Ginny wrote, was as fascinating as anything she'd found since the long-Missing may_kasahara. There's this wonderful roman fleuve being written, and I'll never know how it ends. I hate that. I really do.

I used to get comments and notes. I used to be a roman fleuve all on my own: a set of Stories lovely friends-and-correspondents used to read. I used to be a Voice that had its followers, that was worth reading and engaging with. So many ongoing Stories that I'll never know about again. And no one left who wants me to be either part of their ongoing novel or a set of Stories worth reading.

Presence and affection... I miss having those things. I miss feeling like I was one of a set of interconnected voices.

Doner kebab for lunch. I don't eat at night, and the single doner kebab will do for the day. But I do have gin--- I have to thank Gillian at coco__ for recommending gin. I have bitters; I could make pink gins. But it'll just be gin in some zero-calorie off-brand lemon-lime drink. Make note: more gin for the weekend. I told Cynthia Gralla once that I envy her being able to hallucinate when she starves or drinks. I can't even manage to pass out when I drink.

The one doner kebab today. There's never anything to eat here in the flat. Garlic dills in the fridge for doing the Russian vodka thing. Rooibos tea. Accessories for food--- sriracha sauce, Chinese mustard, soya, Pommery poivre vert mustard. But no actual food.

My architect friend in SF writes that she was invited to a nyotaimori party but found herself disappointed. The server girls had saran wrap between the sushi and bare flesh and weren't fully naked in any case. (Cynthia Gralla wrote so powerfully about nyotaimori in "The Floating World"--- but did she ever actually become a server during her hostessing days in Tokyo?) I really need to ask my architect friend about her own Stories and life. She's been married twice, but does she fancy girls? What about boarding school? What was her life like in Morocco? In NYC? In the Palestinian Territories? She once knew Genesis P. Orridge... What was that all about?

Listening to Berlin's "You Don't Know". The song always reduces me to tears. A girl singing it to me... Oh, God. That would leave me in tears. Make a note. Berlin was a band that meant so much to me in my Lost Youth. Berlin's "Sex (I'm a...)" and "When We Make Love" remain two of my favourite dancefloor seduction songs.

I found a video online today--- how to tie a Tuareg tagelmoust. Not so very different from tying a basic keffiyeh/shemagh. The site with the video has full Tuareg tagelmoust indigo cloth--- 15 feet for forty dollars. I need one. And I need to teach Miss Ginny how to do the full wrap, too. I can remember Lacey tying neckties for me, my beautiful 5'11 Teen Victim doing my necktie while we dressed to go out. I'd love to have a girl wrap my face in a keffiyeh or a Tuareg veil. The image in my head is like being a matador being dressed for the corrida.

And of course... the girls in my life have all looked good in neckties. I love girls in (just) a man's white dress shirt and a necktie. Something for Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo to make note of.

Too much gin and zero-calorie lemon-lime. I keep imagining Britt Nicole or Lissy trying on keffiyehs I've sent them. Or tying my Ben Silver neckties as they dress up as a boy to go out with me. And, yes: I wonder how Gillian at coco__ would look dressed as a tall, slender boy. Miss Ginny told me back in the Year Six that she'd dress up as a boy to go out with me...as long as she could pretend to be Russian.

There's no one out there tonight to be a Voice on the aether... I have gin, but no presence or affection. There's no one out there who thinks I'm worth worrying over or caring about. I have my stufflings and my books. But I can't be part of anyone's films-in-the-head. I can't be a Voice that matters to anyone.

Wearing the Tuareg veil matters. As long as everything is hidden but my eyes, I can feel safe. I just wish that I was valuable enough to merit affection and presence.