muted frustration

have you ever felt that kind of frustration? the kind when you're alone in an apartment all by yourself, in a city far from where you grew up.

after watching mildly arousing, free pornography for a couple hours, after pleasuring myself for the fourth time, i'm left still craving sex, unsatisfied with my own manipulations, craving more, yet finding my options degrading--i can either browse lewd profiles on gay hookup sites or...well, i really don't have any other choice.

i am left with nothing--nothing but a messy room, a sink occupied by an unwashed plate, an armful of clothes to fold. i have a book i've been trying to read, but its first hundred pages have failed to excite me as effectively as my mind-numbing, month-old crap magazines.

i want the semester to resume so that i might find myself too busy to feel this kind of frustration, so that i might trade it for the kind that is attributed to an excess of deadlines and commitments and insufficient time.

and since nobody's here this frustration is so contained...so muted.