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I'm not sure if there's something in the salty ocean air or if it's simply my new home's striking resemblance to a penis, but ever since I moved into this lighthouse, I've been doing a lot of masturbating. 

It's kind of inexplicable.  Sure, the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs remind me of the thunderous sex life we had before you got pregnant.  But I don't think that's it.  It's something bigger.  Something I can't put my finger on.  Only my hands. 

Maybe it's the 360-degree view, but living in a lighthouse really lets you see inside your soul.  And so far, just about all I've been seeing is a copious amount of me-on-me action.  

What's most surprising about this increase in masturbation is the fact that I don't even get the internet out here.  No streaming videos.  No hi-res images.  No nothing.  Just a man and his imagination and a decent amount of CVS brand moisturizer.

The floors are a bit rickety, which can be both worrisome and distracting.  I suppose that's why I do a good portion of my masturbating outside.  There's something almost spiritual about having at yourself in a secluded patch of Spruce trees.  Have I wound up with a grundel full of red ants?  You bet I have.  But there's no use crying over spilled milk or swollen buttholes. 

I learned the hard way that there's a lot of truth to that old saying about masturbating on a spiral staircase.  I forget how it goes, exactly. 

You should know this hasn't all been fun and games.  There were dark times - times when I felt like I was sinking down a black hole of masturbation and the only light, the only way to escape, was more masturbation. 

I even had to purchase gardening gloves.  Not only to protect my hands from chaffing.  But because I figured a hobby like gardening might help take my mind off masturbating.  To my chagrin, I learned that digging little holes and filling them with tiny seeds reminded me a lot of sex - which in turn lead to even more masturbation. 

Then, it finally hit me.  This is who I am now: a divorced guy who lives alone in a lighthouse and masturbates upwards of two dozen times a day.  And I'm fine with that.  I'm happier than I've been in a long time.  In fact, I think I may have finally found peace.

I'm sure you're wondering why I'm writing you a letter - why now - and why this letter is focused almost entirely on my current masturbatory habits.   And I'm not sure I've got a great answer for you. 

I hope you and the kids are doing great.  Please tell them daddy loves them.   Maybe it's too soon, but you guys are more than welcome to come visit.