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There is a ballroom that resides somewhere inside my mind. The walls are a pale and languid yellow, lit by candles and the occasional gaslight. The floors are honey colored, shining with beeswax and reflecting the gilt of the ceiling ornament. On this floor, masked dancers twirl in layers of skirts and petticoats, starched white shirt fronts and gold cufflinks, and nary a scrap of skin among them. The yellow light shines upon green fabric and white bone, red rouge applied to polished ivory cheekbones. This is the Ballroom of the Beautiful Death, where things wonderful and morbid keep themselves when I choose not to let them out. And now, gentle readers, you have an invitation to gaze upon the wonders, and the horrors, contained within my seething brain. Beware, and enjoy.

Author's Note: This is a fictionalized autobiographical journal. I write these things that happen to me in a sort of open-ended extended metaphor, with interludes of reality and introspection. Please respect the fact that I value my anonymity, and that I also am not particularly interested in your kink/adultery/pornographic journals. I simply want people to read this, and hopefully enjoy seeing into my inner life. Also, it will make more sense if you start here and work your way through chronologically. That may be a decent number of entries, but they build on each other like a novel, so it's a worthwhile endeavor if you find my writing entertaining.