So it comes down to me, and directly upon me, that I live in barbarous times. A period where that security of the old is being meticulously torn down all around me. A time when violence has gone from occasional and random to being specifically directed towards others by groups that all feel communally specially self-empowered.And all I want to do right now is fuck someone like I once did in my early twenties. Mindless and carefree and completely in the moment. Release that monumental inner stress in one unquenchable blasting fountain in a stream of semen so powerful that it drips back upon me from the ceiling back onto all. Masturbation alone does not do that.
I wonder if she knows what a bitch she is? That same old tired game of manipulation that she routinely goes through. The one that gives her all the power as residing ‘victim’ to care without being involved in the slightest way. God forbid! Don’t overstep your role and offer something from out of nowhere or she goes quiet. Like a girl child who has a special shelf space for every one of her dolls and will not tolerate any of them not being set in their proper place. It gets to a point where all I can say to myself silently in such conversations is that she begs indulgences that are far beyond what she is deserved of given the indifference of the sorts of attitudes she is prone to. I wonder if she is truly unaware? Or if this is some sort of longstanding devious little game she has played all throughout her entire life. It make me want to take a bullwhip to her naked flesh. My own life experience in general tells me that women are fucked. They never know what they really want out of life because at one point or another, they want everything!
Now all I want is an occasional pleasant time, and as of late, to get a good fuck now and again! Where is the harm in that? This sort of interaction explains a lot as to why authors have written what they have for millennia about this topic. How does one translate “Women are fucked!”, in Phoenician? Of course, in terms of the tending my own peas and carrots within my own emotional garden, and getting them to properly match up with the never ending external tasks at hand, all I can comment on is that it is terminally exhausting! I ask myself at this late date, is it enough to be good at looking like I am going through the right motions? Is that performance good enough to fend off any possible criticism from above? Or are my efforts as despairing, as they seem to be to me actually constructive in some way. Maybe at this age I have finally shot my wad? Burned out, used up and essentially finished, as far as the rest of the word is concerned? I need to fuck!
Old, pathetic, shriveled little dick, and dwindling stamina, given my advancing age, I still need to fuck! And so here I am, at this current urine stained turning page of contemporary society. An era where all involved should know better! Most all having gone through these same old repetitive lessons posed in so many different ways. It always comes out wrong! The way that one feared it might all the way back to the beginning. All of us, not just one or the other. No one able to really, deep down, stand patiently in the presence of another without some central unmitigated complaint about something tiny lodged under their skin that they cannot seem to dig out. That minuscule every annoying sliver slowly poisoning all with eternal discontent. It makes one confident that Freud had always meant to be a weapon to be used to degrade the sanity of the rest of overall humanity. Something to destabilize, co-opt and then finally dissolve society into a foamy lathered residue. These new rules by way of the almighty doctrine of critical theory. Or the implementation of perpetual criticism about one’s actions, no matter what they may be! Ultimately a technique to create slaves! That assimilated sense of fear of being found out be everyone else and then, without a word silently be taken to task. And now that we have hundreds of millions of cameras poised at everything in our lives, both inside and out, one dares not be careless in there everyday actions and not appear inconsequential and ‘normal’. Lest it be taken up at sometime between now and the future as proof of one having committed some unexpected wrong doing.
I just want to fart and shit with my carelessly thundering bowels within a public toilet. Simply preoccupied the stall with my own world. And not to some fool next to me who might communicated some possible judgment over to by my peers. And this so called reasonable life tin which everyone gives advice to me too freely, when after I truly tell them exactly how I really feel inside. They can all go to Hell! I am too old, and too long in the tooth to dance this careful dance! And yet, I don’t want to wake up the next morning though and have to carry the burden of having said or done something that had seen me gone too far the previous day before. Excuses, like band aids, constantly made over a lifetime don’t play out well to an old face in the mirror. Seeing others forge ahead, or fall behind, when one is sure that there will always plenty of time ahead to do what’s needed. But always come up dry decades later, don’t cut it. At least that is what I will tell myself when I am alone, as in fact I have all long been. As I forever have been! If this is a storehouse of emotion and endless experience, then why is it buried so deep and hard to instantly recall? As if something within is hiding it? Burying it out of reach of the present?
So, why then are these good olden days of memory plagued buried legend and lore seemingly so prosaic in temporal hallowed halls of occasional awareness? Of anything more pleasant in the current era? A psychology afflicted younger more agile brain might retort that they had never been to begin with, That with this rapid decline of physicality of one’s body as life draws close to a final closing, it is simply an animal response to the present day accumulation of pain. A natural reaction substituting inward focus for outward impulse to help survive any further future involving an ever mounting level of painful difficulty to be suffered by an aging frame. In truth, one’s mental store house of recent events counted out in the main spotlight naturally brings one back to former more glorious eras when at least thought they had a slim chance of being eternally lovable.
And so in these coming days, when the blue sky outside seems less inviting and not so friendly than that old sort of ‘normal’ that I have so long hoped to regain, there is pause. That old illusion of solid friendship along with the intricate ties that a long life provides now drifts further into the sunset. Today, and tomorrow, a feeling as empty as thick morning mist, ever impatient to pass quickly into memory by afternoon. These growing bouts of tiny sickness’s incrementally accumulating into ever more. I seem to be on the edge of struggling free from the erasure my past. Leaving it in dim awareness of one who was such a person, as I, as really I am, and have finally become replete with all my many manifold flaws. A true Dorian Grey, all caught in a perpetually difficult place.