To what degree do I call myself insane?

How long can you hole yourself up in a room before your mind begins to drift to how no matter what I touched or what she kissed it was the heady whispering gasps of ecstasy that got me off the most. Or how she would never kiss me without the tongue as though that must have been what I wanted.

I got what I wanted... sort of. Was it that I knew that what I wanted wasn't what would make me happy, so what I wanted wasn't really what I wanted at all: A byproduct of me randomly drifting from "Loving, Caring Storybook Loner" to Pumped-Up Fucked-Up Sex Machine Loner. Loner who saw her with lustful eyes when the water glistened off the orange-white cleft of her ass as it beconed to me under those teasing spaghetti strings. Oh to slip her out of that and taste everything she was: to make her the writhing moaning pit of ecstasy she was that night would be everything I could ever want.

Half of me knows it would leave me hollow while the other half doesn't care.