On Sex

For me, sex has been the most confusing aspect of my existence since the first awkward night. After my first sexual experience, I didn't really know what to think. While I assumed the normal "Heck yeah, man, let's go get me some PUSSY" mentality typical of an idiot teenager, I grappled with the deeper meaning. It was imperative that the lowly act mean something other than physical gratification. When my sexual relationship matured, I thought that sex was about connecting with someone in a higher plane of existence, something I couldn't even comprehend. This stuck for awhile, but I was eventually forced back to this lowly plane by the pure bestiality of the act. Compared with art, literature, music, and other higher forms of communication, the actual physical act of sex is bestial, even sinful. I felt like a worm. This is where I have been. Alone and friendless in this ashamed state, I relegated sex to the lower realm of human gratification, akin to scratching an itch or sleeping. What purpose can a bestial act have, thought I, among the spiritual realm of higher meaning?
What I was doing was relegating acts of the body as low and acts of the mind as high. In this I separated the mind and body, instinctively driving a wedge between earthly and heavenly. The problem lies in the fact that there is no heaven, only earth. What I consider my mind is a collection of neuronal impulses floating inside my skull. While some consider this a damnation of human consciousness, I see it as a deification. After all, what could be more holy than something constructed of dirt capable of creating eternal beauty? Human achievement derives from the need to satisfy human desire, thus all achievements are also constructed of dirt.
This is becoming trite. I'll revise this.

Tell Me, Dear

My hands are red and blue, darling, and the smell of cheap laundry detergent fills my nostrils as I write this woeful tale down; down to you, sugar plum. Just for you, sadly, this is all for you. I have no better advice to give than to leave me, drop me, get me gone, for I am nothing and will never be more than nothing for you. I've got this problem, you see, and don't hate me for it, I'm just seeing it in me for the first time, I am, that I've got this problem where I stop my self from doing well. You ask, how could you keep yourself from the joy and happiness, you ask, well I'll tell you, darling, I love failing. There's nothing more exhilarating than knowing I failed when I could have done well. Yes, done better than well, done the best of anyone. Better than all the smart folks who always do well, even better than them. I know I could, sugar, but you see, I can't do that. If I did that I'd always have to keep doing well, doing better than well, and how could I do that, now tell me, dear? I don't have the stamina for that; I'd fall like a pile of leaves, crumble into dust to be walked upon by all those better than me that I'd do better than. I can't do that, I can't do well, how can I do well, tell me dear, I'm all atwitter with the anticipation of an answer. An answer only you can tell me so, please, darling, sweet-pea, my love, tell me how I am to do well?

No. Don't let me know. Leave me and get out of here. Get out before I drag you back in like I always do with my soft words and sweet moans. Oh, darling, I couldn't bear to see you down with me. Down in the muck. Down in the sweet nothing of potential. So get out. You've got so much that I could destroy, and honey, baby, my love, I really want to destroy you.

The Start of Something Good

I've decided to begin chronicling my daily life. I know, that's sort of the point of blogs. But here's the rub, most blog's about folks' daily lives are really boring. "I went to school today and I hated it lol!" is all I read anymore. Actually I don't read blogs because I read one like that and generalized all blogs from that. The point is I'm not going to be giving you, my faithful reader, the play by play of my boring life. Instead, I think I'll try more interesting things. As an example, let me tell you a story.
There once was a writer who became famous for writing very interesting stories that no one could quite understand. He wrote of incredible heroes wielding mighty swords to slay monsters and save princesses. He wrote murder stories, where the culprit ended up being the protagonist. He wrote children's stories and romance novels and was widely praised for his illusory and somewhat normal writing style. Critics loved him because he remained starkly ambiguous. Normal folk loved him because the stories were simple and didn't require any deep thought. His success as a writer was unequaled, and indeed, he became "the writer of the generation."
There was a problem, though. This famous writer lived a life consumed by fear. He was constantly afraid that someone would figure him out. He knew that one day, one person would realize that he was writing about absolutely nothing. That was the key to his success. He wrote about absolutely nothing. He always started a story without knowing where it was headed. This aimless writing style was the critics' ambrosia, as they declared it so ambiguous and beautiful that it had to mean something. But it didn't. The sum of all the epic prose and moving dialogue was nothing. Thus the writer lived in fear.
One day, the writer saw his death in the form of a young woman with green eyes. At a book signing, in the line of enthusiastic fans, he saw her. She moved so easily and steathily, hiding, then appearing with leonine eyes, full of bloodlust, that stared directly into his cowering soul. He knew his death was fast approaching. This girl knew his secret, knew his embarrassing and career ending truth. He quickly stood up. Without a word, he walked off and destroyed his hollow life.