I need to start writing more. There is something magical in the act, not to mention therapeutic. I think I need to begin writing down my stories. For real. I think the way flotsam has installments of "This Girl On The Couch," or of her play "Tell Me," is a good way to do it. I need to start at the beginning. I need to write a whole section at a time. But who has the time? With my job, going back to school, and my new relationship, I never get the chance to just sit and write.

We are having a dinner party tonight. She's cooking dinner and we're watching a TV event. The other guests consist of two of her exes and their respective partners. (I suppose this is quasi-normal in the lesbian community...) Many years ago, when she was with one of these exes (we'll call her Betty) - who still happens to be her best friend, and whom I like a great deal - she couldn't keep away from the other of these exes (we'll call her Sinead), couldn't manage keep her hands off of her, and vice versa. I mean, Betty knew about everything and had agreed to this arrangement, so it wasn't deceitful. Not that I'm worried or anything. The past is the past, after all. And I've met Sinead and her girlfriend (we'll call her Karen) at a party, and we got along famously. I have no problem shmoozing with people. I mean, I know she poses no threat. The past is the past. Sure, she's kinda cute, and seems smart enough. But why, when I think of her and the love of my life "not being able to keep their hands off each other," even more than a decade before, is every dormant jealous fiber in my body sent into fiery spasms? I know she thinks that my fabulousness outshines all else in my vicinity. But it is not a rational thing, jealousy. Not that I'm jealous. Not that I'm worried or anything. The past is the past.

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