Couldn’t sleep last night because I kept replaying the same thought: I miss being loved.  Was a horrible thought to replay.  Makes me feel so anti-feminist.  As if I need someone to pull a Jerry Maguire and complete me.  But it’s not that at all; it’s not a matter of completion.  As much as I enjoy myself and my independence, I miss being a complement.  To share someone’s world –and to be someone’s world –and all the lovely extras associated with that. 

Around 2am, I took some Nyquil.  Four hours of contemplation was enough.