Well, maybe you're right

I just re-read my paper journal entry for Wednesday, that I was intending to post here yesterday -- but you know what happened with that. Incidentally, it turned out I did have the notebook with me after all -- it had just slipped inside my copy of Jack Kerouac's Desolation Angels. I love Kerouac, but wish he would use punctuation sometimes.

But yeah, the entry isn't worth repeating. It made sense at the time, it had its purpose, but that is lost back in Wednesday. It's now a grey and very cold Saturday afternoon.

I still don't know what I'm doing with San.
Yesterday we were talking about this girl she knew the last time she was at university, a friend of a friend more than anything. I remember clearly we were broken up at the time San met Anna, and remember how San wrote in her diary she wanted to kiss Anna more than the guy she was making out with that night. This week, Anna and some of San's other old university friends are coming to Leicester for a visit and staying in her room. San described it as "wall-to-wall-hotties".

We got from there to the idea of San sleeping with girls. I told her that the idea of sleeping with girls while we're dating doesn't bother me half as much as it would if she was sleeping with other guys. I guess you can't compare apples to oranges. We talked a little about how she had been curious about dating other guys a little while back. She said it wasn't about sex, she didn't want to sleep with other guys, she just wanted to see how she was around other people.

It could be that I'm feeling more detached from 'us' now, but the idea doesn't bother me too much. Not on the surface at least. Maybe it would be a good thing for us both to see other people, it could help me get my head straight on what I want. But it could also complicate things beyond all recognition.

I could probably have San agree that we should see other people, and have her think it was her idea to begin with and that I'm just being open minded. It makes me feel manipulative, though, and I should probably be honest about my thoughts and feelings.

The truth is, bang in the centre of my skull there's a strange coolness. A strange detachment. Sometimes I'm unsure to what extent I'm really me, and to what extent I just play a different parts to suit certain people.

Sometimes I write a fictional diary, about a guy with no feelings except self-interest and a certain rage. I started it way back when, when I was dating Fiona and got sick of my incessant whining. But the truth is, I think it's a little closer to me than I like to admit. Unlike the nameless protagonist of my fiction, I do have a conscience -- but sometimes I know what's wrong, and I do it anyway. This is drifting way off topic. The point is, I don't know if I care -- or how long I can care for. This sours me to the idea of seeing other people.

I'm ending here, before I go too far from the point.