A point

I've reached a point. I don't know what to call it.
My camera is broken, so I can't take half-nekkid pictures of myself anymore. Just as well. Can't fool myself that anyone wants to see me half-nekkid anyway, as I'm newly aware of just how old and out-of-shape I really am.
The Lady of the House is among those who no longer want to see me half-nekkid. I've suspected that for a while. We no longer share a bed at all: I snore, and she needs her rest, being the only one here with an actual paying job. But if we're not sleeping in the same room, it's difficult to initiate any hanky-panky. Not that I want to, since it's obvious now that hanky-panky is just another chore for her. Thinking back, that's been true for a while.

Depression is as bad as ever. Worse, actually, since I'm taking one fewer anti-depressants due to unwanted interaction with heart medication. (I had a skin rash that made me look like I'd been rolling around in poison ivy. That's better now.)
The antidepressant had been muting my libido. I didn't notice that until I stopped taking it. Now I spend all my time somewhere in that range between emotional heartache and full-on horny. All the time. And with no outlet for it other than my own two hands.
It's one thing to realize I'm never going to have sex with anyone else. It's another to realize I've had the best sex I'm ever going to have. But the realization that I've had the last sex I'm ever going to have is proving to be a particularly bitter one.
I don't know what happens from here, but I'm pretty sure it won't be entertaining blog fodder.