I suppose it was inevitable that I manage to start writing again. Of course, now I want to start moving past the self-absorbed navel gazing (as entertaining as that may be for some) and get back to writing other things. Like short stories. Parodies, even. Satire? How about a freakin' POEM, Wordsworth?
At this point anything would be an improvement. Hell, with the sheer amount of experience I have in the real-world on the topic, you'd think I would be writing some really great erotica, at the very least.
Sure, there was always the risk that someone would recognize the bits where I pulled from our mutual experiences, but now that I have a fairly large group of people who abandoned me for greener pastures, I could be using that pool for some material with little guilt in the least. Even my innate fear of burning bridges (the world is WAY too interconnected in my life to do such things lightly) should be mollified by the fact that those bridges aren't just ashes, they were blasted into planes of glass of very large fusion bombs.
Maybe I'll just need to get on that bicycle (sans seat) and see where it takes me.