posted on May, 25 2010 @ 07:18 PM
As a matter of luck, I had succeeded in selling, not cheap, my painfully worn-out running-limping shoes to treat my sprained ankle and sore back and
other ills with second-hand pills.
Sincerely, all of a sudden, sick of bla bla bla, I didn’t know what to talk or write about until I resorted to discussing monumental transitions and
crises, vaguely defined terms going from usually more exciting bachelorhood to traditionally dull, solemn marriage to hopeful divorcehood to desperate
loneliness to marriage resurrection, and so on and on and on.
I tried to realize my tremendous potential in other way. When primal scream hit me like a truck, I accidentally wanted to f … only to end up
soothing myself. Pain was thought to be therapeutic. Tenderness was also in. Prone to attempting, in vain, to inflame the imaginations of millions
with my true stories ringing like different phones or fairy tales of hugging friends, strangers, even enemies, I failed the quick-buck hoax.
Reticence and tact were out. Hypnosis enjoyed a renaissance and its practitioners swallowed pride and choked on embarrassment, regressing their
clients to the time of the Stone Age only to succeed in failing to return.
Something, over and over again, was in. This time, imagery. Merely imagining a goal - say my favorite objects, wealth or sex - would lead to its
achievement. More modestly, visualizing a busty princess would make one appear. As rumor crept, it didn’t work with gays and transvestites.
Tiny sex was my big silent news. A violent sexual revolution invaded my idyllic life, as did not sexually transmitted diseases, due to chance and God
forbid. Oh yeah, I was so much into it. Well, not really, mainly because what I saw in hard porn movies created destructive job performance anxiety
and also made me beautifully aware of most ugly people’s dysfunctions, yet not to turn me off. So masturbation, its art, of course safely prescribed
by sex therapists, professional conmen, thought of as an incurable disease or self-abuse became an easy cure or self-pleasure in the glorious gallery
of self-pity. Anyway, I expanded my libertine horizons by applying different acts and positions through multiple and extended orgasms, unfortunately
often missing women’s G spots until they would eventually get tired and bored, or menstruation, even menopause, one actually dropped dead, and I
would sadly be an unhappy, dissatisfied sex maniac forever. Such was love life.
Unwanted stress, not babies, was hot, skillfully avoiding me like a bicycle masterfully dodging divinely human excrement. I was cold, freezing,
actually dreaming about some scorching erotica tropics. Europe, the Old World, held me tight, callous, and responsible. Not bananas, though. Nuts,
Meanwhile pop psychology went public, mushrooming greater acceptance like a nuclear explosion as there was no other way in these atomic times. Experts
bombarded me and the debris populace with advice on every thing under the radioactive sun.
Last but not least, high-tech attacked me, so I had to come up with some perfect phobia defense to give serious offence through computer jargon by
outputting heavily like a bulimic, looking like an anorexic, who really sucked.
Then I crossed my fingers, hoping for something like A Second To Universal Happiness, or more like a hole because I felt like dying, but it never came
and actually I never did, of which this philosophically psychological scribble is ample proof. Frankly, I had set out to win fans and provoke some
independent thought to sort it all out.