Calling it Like I Smell 'em

I might as well carry this sign around,

full fucking time.

Seems like all I have surrounding me are bitches,

cons, liars, Can't-Understand-Nothing-Trolls, and selfish

 assholes...and brother, I am sick of it!

PURGE

!!>

Looks like Madge has the right idea there

with a little Fall cleaning!

"Crazy, begone! I gots my own shit

sandwich to finish devouring!

Don't need yours, too!"

***

Inappropriate Humor

Don't Be Surprised

You know the old saying, "If you lie down with dogs,
you'll wake up with fleas?"

Or how about "The quality of your friends says a
lot about your character!"

Well, I happened across this acquaintance's facebook
page the other day, and among the listed names of
"People Who Inspire Me" were George Bush and--
wait for it--Newt Gingrich!

The best part of all? This guy has a status of "engaged."

Well, here's a suggestion for his soon-to-be other half;
Girl...you better RUN, don't walk, straight outta that
mess, cuz I sure don't wanna hear you crying in two
years when your married ass wonders why there were
'no signs' that he wasn't as legit as he proclaimed!

The writing is always on the walls, boys and girls.
Stop and read it.

******************************************

"There Ain't No Fucking Short Order Cook Up In Here!"

"I said, dear, that you and your brother

have a choice for how to start your day;

you are either going to be 'grateful, fed bitches'

or 'complaining, hungry bitches'....cuz

this is what there is to eat!"

*******

Be Careful Where You Get Sick

"Get this Cheese to sick bay!"

Well, I laugh so that the edge is taken off.
This is a true story, with some humor added so as not to
come across so rancorously.

I decided I needed to share what happened to me last month
when I was having my heart pains. More specifically, what
happened to me as a result of the police department calling
9-1-1 for emergency services to respond.

I wasn't going to get into all this, especially since I may
one day need another ride to the hospital, but...then I thought
"Hey, somebody might not actually be as lucky as me! What
if incompetence kills someone?" So, here's my story.

My heart was in my throat, beating rapid fire like a machine
gun's burst, I couldn't breathe, it felt like an elephant was sitting
on my chest, I was faint, I hurt, and I was scared shitless. (Well,
not literally, thankfully. As Bill Cosby always said, that is a big
fear.) I stumbled into the police department about 10 p.m. to
get help. The lady on duty called for help and fanned me.

A guy from the police or fire department was there talking me
through it, sat me down, tried to get me to calm down, reassured
me (Thanks, to whoever you are!) So the EMTs/EMS whatever
they are arrive (Seminole County,) and it's the two dudes on night
shift. I knew them from before because they had come to the house
a few times for my step dad. One is very laid back and sweet, if a
bit passive, and the other is a real 'rough-em, tough-em' redneck.

I'm sitting here with all these symptoms, and for all we know it's
a heart attack, and one starts taking my blood sugar, and the
other tries--yes I said tries--to take my blood pressure. He gives
it a go three different times before reporting that he can't 'get'
anything. Then they ask me what I might like to do next.

Why don't we order a pizza? Or go check out the new Chuck
Norris film? What's that? Chuck Norris (thankfully) doesn't
make films any more? I guess I wouldn't know that cuz I'm
in the midst of an altered state brought on by a physical
emergency situation! I WANNA GO TO THE HOSPITAL,
ya numb nuts...where potentially someone can at least get a
blood pressure reading.

So I walk myself out to their bus, climb in, and we sit there,
me struggling for breath and heart beating out of my chest,
and for about 20 minutes--no exaggeration--they fool with
the heart rate monitor. "It's messed up. It hasn't been working.
I think I have it. No, this isn't doing right." At some point,
I had some oxygen put one me. Eventually, in the time it would
have taken to drive to Dothan, the machine was turned on and
strapped to me.

My heart rate was all over the map. The decision was made
to go to Dothan since it was a heart problem, and we left.

The guy I was left with in back seemed really not to know what
to do. I heard him reading a little book, trying to figure out what
my heart rate printout meant, and which route to take. He kept
changing his mind on what was going on with the readout.
Eventually, he calls for the driver to PULL OVER off the road
and come to the back. I'm totally freaking out now.

He has a big conversation with him about what's going on, why is
it doing this, what drug should we give him, etc. I just want to get
to the hospital, and the weird thing is that I can tell from what I
see out the open back door that we're next to Efurd's store, so
we're damned near all the way to the hospital already. No more
than five minutes.

They end up deciding to give me one drug which causes my heart
rate to get even more rapid and my breathing more shallow. They
call in that we're on the way and what's happening, but then the
dude in the back pushes that I have gotten under control now that
he gave me the drug. OH NO HE DIDN'T!

We get there, unload and I am immediately swapped over and
seen by several nurses, nurse practitioners, doctors on duty.
The Seminole guy, who is normally kind of gruff and poor bedside
manner and rude, is now all cheery and Mr. Brown Noser, talking
to the staff who do everything short of tell him "Get the fuck out
of the way, we have it!" They are all kind of visibly turned off by
how ingratiating and oblivious the guy is, and he keeps asking if
they need anything, going and coming back, over and over. You
can tell they don't like him, and rightfully so.

The doctor on duty quickly points out that, no, I was obviously in
A-Fib, and you can tell he has questions as to why the wrong drug
given would have worked, which is what the annoying dude keeps
pushing in his story, again and again.

Finally he has a clipboard ready for me to sign, and pushes it through
the midst of chords, tubes, and staff for me to hold this heavy ass
board and sign. I make an effort, but it's heavy and I can't see well
and I'm weak. He looks at it and says "Oh, no, man, I can't even see
anything. You're gonna have to do that again!" And I looked pleadingly
at the doctor (who had just about had enough of this joker's shit,)
and he grabs the damned board and says he'll do it. To which apple
polisher seems to think is the greatest idea ever.

(I don't recall the E.R. doc's name, just that he was smoking hot.
Nothing like realizing you still have a libido to let you know that
either you aren't as bad off as you imagined, or your last moments
will be filled with pleasant distraction.)

They're getting ready to give me another dose of laughing boy's
supposed cure-all drug, and he's walking out the door. I motion for
them to stop, which they do, diligently waiting to hear what I had to
say. I ask if he's cleared out, and he has. I explain the real circum-
stances; that I was 'level' until the drug was pumped, at which time
I burned, and breathing and heart rate worsened. The doctors got
kind of angry about the dude's incompetence, and maybe at having
believed him, and ordered the right drug that they must have known
should have been used all along.

(A sidenote; I can't say enough good about my experience with
every member of the hospital, from start to finish. Professional,
kind, doting, and compassionate. They really walked me through this.)

"But..but..I just stubbed my toe, sir!"

Now, I know all jobs like this are hard. And I am, obviously,
appreciative for the ride to the hospital where they did help me.
Not-so-much the added problems that put me in jeopardy that
were caused by an over-eager paramedic who seemed to want to
oh-so-badly be involved with something. I was stable. I was five
minutes from the hospital. He didn't know what he was doing.
He should have left well enough alone.

But see, I had a misunderstanding about the qualifications of a
paramedic or EMT. I thought they had to be extremely well
trained since they are the critical care respondents in those often
life-or-death first few minutes of a medical emergency. That would
make sense, right? That the person who is there when the most
possibility of getting someone stabilized and cared for should have a
great deal of knowledge to combat a lot of possible occurrences?

Nope.

Most EMTs  have to have a certificate that takes a year to attain. 
Yeah, you read that right. Basic level EMTs have about 130 hours
of training required to meet the National Standard curriculum, and
it can actually be completed in as little as 4 months!

They might have more than that. There's no preventing someone
who's overqualified from working that job. But that's all you
have to have.

(And we're seriously understaffed in this area, too. If there are
three emergencies at the same time spread across the several
hundred square acres covered, well, honey, it sucks to be you if
you're emergency # 3! Or, perhaps you'd do just as well to have
somebody drive your happy ass to the hospital. In which case,
make 'em keep driving til you hit Southeastern Medical Center.)

So I talked with a friend who's a nurse about this, since
it seems kind of crazy to me. She confirmed and said "Nope! All
a paramedic is supposed to do is stabilize them and get them to
the E.R. alive." Well, wouldn't that be improved by being able
to figure out what the damned medical condition is so you can
treat it properly? And round and round we went.

All of which doesn't amount to a hill of beans in regards to this
battle, because obviously it's not rocket science we're looking
for here; I'd just liked for them to have known how to use a blood
pressure-taking device, how to turn on the machine, how not to
administer drugs when you can't determine the need, and how to
drive straight to the hospital without unnecessary pull-overs.

But, I'm sure the haters will just say that I ought ta be happy we
have a service at all, and, hey, you're still alive aren't you?
Well, barely.

Moral of the lesson is, if you (or someone who cares about you)
have a bad feeling about the medical care you are getting, don't
be afraid to speak up. The medical folks aren't infallible, and my
speaking up may have saved my life. Maybe if I had been more
together on that deserted highway in the middle of the night, I
wouldn't have gotten so bad to start with.

That, and $ 750 is a lot of money to be charged for a drive to
Dothan and nearly being killed.

****************************************************

Gleaning

Sooner or later...

People will reveal to you

who they really are.

Their true form

behind the facade.

You should pay attention

and listen intently

when they do.

And act accordingly.

(Contradictory nature

and unknowable souls

are true forms,

by the way,

not the first step

on a romantic

journey to discovery.)

**********

The Ties That Bind, Gag, Hold Ransom, and Torture

My mother and I are not special in that we have a very strained
and unusual parent-child relationship. We are more like siblings;
siblings who can't stand one another and yet have business
dealings. It's toxic, unhealthy, unrewarding, and disastrous.
And yet, like all good Southern boys, I don't sever the bond entirely.

At the doctor's office the other day, there was an instructional
video playing in the waiting room. A very perky announcer was
telling how one of the greatest problems leading to stress was lack
of familial relationships. It's possible I may have blurted out that
"Family connection is precisely what had stressed me to begin with."
Or perhaps the other waiters were just looking my way casually.

When people ask about plans for the holidays, and I answer that
I'll be staying to myself like always, they look shocked and dismayed.
"Don't you want to spend time with family?" they crone!
"Why would I want to ruin a perfectly good day?" I shoot back.

They say "You can't choose family," to which I reply "No shit, Sherlock!"
Cuz there would for damned sure be a continuous line at the returns
counter if you could exchange these sorry bastards.

And yet, also like all goofy redneck sons-of-bitches, I can talk shit
about the crazy 'ho all live long day, but I'll not tolerate anyone else
being a dick to her. I'd cut and bury anyone who tried to hurt her.
I've earned my battle scars and the right to talk shit about her; no one
else has.

I occasionally get some sorry moralizing mealy-mouth who wants
to wax empathetic about 'dear old Mom' and tell me that I "shouldn't"
think or speak of her the way I do. To which I say, respect due,
"Go fuck yourselves." I'm happy they ate their obedient-robot
Wheaties, but I give tit for tat. Respect is earned, not a given.
Don't start none, won't be none.

No one has done more to actively and intentionally cause pain in
my life than Mommy Dearest. That's not some childish rambling nor
an exaggeration; she's a crazy, mean-spirited, controlling,
soul-sucking, manipulative personality. That others don't believe
it true or that it doesn't mirror their own parent-child relationship
has no bearing on my reality in the least.

Why do people stay enmeshed with such dubious links?
Is it a constant fantasy that one day things will magically change?
Or perhaps a hopeful desire that we'll be present when disaster
strikes so we can witness it first hand?

Either way, it's a given that the ties that bind tend to strangle
and limit more than they support and uplift. But the commonality
of that love-hate craziness at least give us all something to 
commiserate over!

******************************************************

Shitty Southerners

Redneck BBQ "Show-and-Tell";

"And then, what happened next was...."

Initially, I was taken by the idea that it was an "old people"
thang. Then I moved on to imagine it was particular to
"sick people." But as I live and learn, I now see it seems
to be (yet another) "Southern thang."

The art of talking shit. No, not 'reality' show pomp-and-
circumstance; the literal artless form of talking about one's
bowels and their private goings on.

Not for the feint of heart; beware of anyone who starts
out a conversation with great trepidation and angst and
the words "I was having trouble for days, cramped up,
constipated,...and then...."

No. No "and then." The constipation was more than I
needed to know. There is no formal invitation--implied
or otherwise-- to discuss scatological endeavors simply
because I say 'hello' to you, or, merciful mythology, ask
you 'How have you been?'  Keep that shit to yourself.

What is wrong with people? Why is it beyond them that
"my stomach's been bothering me" is sufficient? Even that
falls under the heading of personal, innermost, private,
innard-most dwellings and dealings. I don't want to know
that much about someone I am sleeping with, let alone
a stranger or an acquaintance at the grocery store.

Whatever happened to decorum? The impact of such
open-ended conversations should be clear, not at all cloudy
or hard to grasp; if you don't know better, try paying attention
to the look of horror that crosses people's faces when you
start in on a ten-minute diatribe about your asshole's innermost
workings. It's an eye-opener.

There's no Tarrantino-esque narration needed about your
porcelain time. No one wants to know a blast-by-blast analysis
of how you destroyed your bathroom. And I guarantee you
that the examination of the deployment is NOT appropriate
unless you are dealing with a medical professional....during an
appointment....upon specific inquiry. And even then there's a
time limit on the poetic rumblings.

It's probably a bit of the redneck ideology that "causing a
commotion or being disturbing is funny" involved in all of
this. But ignorance and poor taste runs a close second, in terms
of readily found traits, so who's gonna do the study to
differentiate?

Please. I beg you. Some things should be kept deep inside.

********************************************

There Are More of Us

(art by kwonshucutie at deviantart)

“I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not
unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life,
hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. We continue to explore ourselves,
hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn
by the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and
unspeakable beauty. We like forests and mountains, deserts and hidden
rivers, and the lonely cities as well. Our sadness is as much a part of our
lives as is our laughter. To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps
as great a joy as we can know - unless it be to share our laughter.


We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it
can provide. Most of all we love and want to be loved. We want to live
in a relationship that will not impede our wandering, nor prevent our search,
nor lock us in prison walls; that will take us for what little we have to give.
We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.

For wanderers, dreamers, and lovers, for lonely men and women who
dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful. It is for those who are
too gentle to live among wolves.”


-James Kavanaugh, introduction to "There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves"

Mess With Texas?

Don't mess with Texas?

What the fuck could we do to worsen it?

Worst. Ad. Campaign. EVER.

**********************

Do You Remember Who You Were (Without Your Partner Telling You?)

It's long been my contention that too much

togetherness is a horrible, debilitating thing. Even in the midst

of an otherwise healthy and mutually beneficial relationship,

too much familiarity does indeed breed contempt!

I have always felt that a couple should have at least

a spare room for one or the other to retire to for some

solitude, if not maintaining separate dwellings all together.

Ideally, a 3-bedroom house/apartment/condo would be

divided as my partner and I did it;

A bedroom for the both of us, and a bedroom apiece for each

individual (to be decorated and maintained only as they

see fit.)

See, there's too much compromise in a modern

relationship. Too much amalgamation and loss of

identity. It's an unnatural and costly social experiment.

We go along feigning acceptance of this atrocious

model of glomming on and complete bondage,.

but nobody really thinks it's a good idea.

But everyone's a hamster on a wheel, so...

Another good idea for maintaining sanity is to have a

vacation. No, not a couples or family vacation

(although those are all right in their own sense.)

I mean an actual vacation from all the

trappings of your normal every day reality--the shit that

drives you to need a break in the first place.

You, yourself, and maybe your friends you never see

anymore, take your asses and get in a car or on a train

to Anywhere that is away from the normal scenery.

Hell, even go to the next town over and get a room for

the weekend. But GET AWAY! Breathe. Relax. Do

your own thing. Have your own space. Be your own boss.

Remember who you are.

(If you have kids, you need to follow this scheme;

a family vacation with everyone (short and sweet,) a

couples vacation (to be free of chirrun for a change,)

and a solo vacation (for tranquility and meditation

and "Me Time."))

If we could talk people into adapting these habits,

we'd have a lot less depression, a lot less divorce, a lot less

anxiety, a lot less assaults, and maybe even some happier

campers at the end of the day.

*************************

Just to Clarify, Haterz

Step the hell back.

I'm a real life, super deluxe G-D Super-Hero.

I don't want your praise.

I don't need your approval.

I'm gonna do what's right...

regardless of the misinterpretation,

regardless of the bullshit,

regardless of the cost.

Go talk some smack.

That'll hurt me...(not.)

*****************

Recognize!

I  AM

AN  ADULT AND
A  SEXUAL  BEING.

I  WILL  NOT

IGNORE  THAT,

HIDE  THAT,

OR BE  ASHAMED  OF THAT

BECAUSE  YOU WERE

TRAINED  TO FEAR
AND BE REPULSED BY
YOUR  GENITALS
(OR YOUR DESIRES

DEEP WITHIN.)

YES, THAT'S RIGHT:

IT'S ALL PART AND PARCEL..

THERE IS NO SEPARATENESS.

RECOGNIZE...

AND RECONCILE.

***************

"Who Dat Jesus Be?"

Okay, it was bad enough when tinsel and ornaments were on display
at retail stores before the beach balls and suntan lotion were off
the shelves.

Now, starting before the 1st of November, we've had "Christmas music"
playing 24/7 on radio stations and in stores.

Enough. Absotively, irrefutably, ENOUGH!

I am boycotting any store and station that plays the 'seasonal music.'

I now proclaim that it is only acceptable to hear the following 3 forms
of Holiday music! (and these only periodically, starting the second week
of December!)

# 1: Irreverent music; You know, 'Jingle Bells' played out with hands
under the armpits making farting sounds......Elmer Fudd doing "Noel"....
funny parodies...shit like that.

# 2: Angry Christmas music; Heavy Metal cover songs,
extreme liberties taken with the lyrics, renditions like "To Hell
With a Merry Old Soul!", South Park doing a raunchy "Little
Drummer Boy"...

# 3: ANTI-Christmas music; any genre of music that wants to
record an anti-Holiday song, such as ""Fuck Commerce",
"Save the World; Blow it Up!", "Who Dat Jesus Be?",
and so forth.

Even Christ only took 3 damned days to rise from the dead
in his little story book...do we really need 60 damned days to
talk about it?!?

And, just a friendly reminder...
Not everybody gives a fuck about Jeebus or Santa Clause.

Give us a break.

********************************************

Giving it up for Lint

The anger just consumes me like a demon, and that's fitting..
it is a demon.

A snake that strikes at the heel and feeds venom. And I
was given some good advice once; When you see the snake,
you kill it...you kill it dead. Don't wait for it to strike and then
act surprised.Same for second chances; once a snake bites you and reveals
they are one, it never changes. If you let them in, they will bite
you again. It's what snakes do.

And people, snakes, demons...they don't change.

If it's a choice between me and someone else, I fucking
guarantee you that I will be left standing.

In the case of anger though, it's the thing that dwells in you
long after the other is done. Shitty people don't care about
the harm they cause. They don't care about anyone or
any thing but self. They break hearts and ruin worlds and
trod on disinterested.

They aren't kept awake by troubled conscience.
They don't feel guilt and shame.
They don't feel connected or obligated to other living things.

I can't fight the entire world; popular people are popular
because they have found an 'in' with others and they can
twist them to their will. The biggest liar, if charming enough,
can have everyone eating out of their hands. I can't educate
the world.

So, I don't want to have my mind on a loser asshole.

I don't want to be obsessed about things I can't change.

I don't want to waste energy on people who don't appreciate
or have souls.

I don't want to hurt because of evil things said by meaningless
snakes and demons.

I don't want to be distracted from what I want to do by the
misdeeds of others.

So, I am making a decision. I'm giving it up. Giving it back.
Not playing the Game any more. Not inviting the Snake in.

It--the memories, the feelings, the angst, the bullshit, the
anger--it's all as useless as belly button lint. And I sure as
hell wouldn't hang on to that, so I'm giving it up (as if) for
lint. (Yes, it was a play on words. I can spell.)

I don't understand, and I have to accept that.
Some things just aren't meant to be understood, and people
certainly fall under that category, especially those under the
influence of demon possession and snake totems.

Sociopaths will charm and lie and connive and manipulate
and use the souls of whole people to try and sway them.
They will take advantage of every thing possible. There is
no reconciling that.

Get away. get far the fuck away....and at least metaphorically,
Kill the beast.

I disallow you power over any aspect of my life.

I know you for the Shit you are, and I dispose of you.
But I don't foolishly forget, and I don't forgive because that's
passive victimhood. I purge you, whole, from my system.

Not worth a thought. Not worth a word.
Not worth a second of my time.
Now, I'm only mad at myself; What took me so long?

Time for a little Lashing Out!

There's nothing about me that says

"Please Use and Abuse Me", or

"Tread on Me",

not any longer,

not one little bit.

The Nice Guy has departed;

Naivete and pandering are not

in my lexicon any further.

I don't apologize for living.

I will not sit in the back of the bus,

I will not listen to ridiculous prattling horseshit,

I won't misname a spade just to appease you.

I'm here to be Me, not a mini-You.

Your approval and acceptance and amelioration

is of Zero Concern to me.

The fact that others are hurting, too,

is great for philosophizing,

but it doesn't necessitate me taking a backseat.

"Step back--heart attack--

Stone cold sober, as a matter of fact--

The bitch is back."

No more slack.

I ain't taking flak.

**********************

"I Wish I Knew How To Quit You"

Erich Wolfsfeld's "The Bound Man"

I know better.  I really, really do.


I break free, and then somehow, surreptitiously...
as if lured by a serpent's gaze or a siren call,
some remote thinking on you mires me down.
Takes me back.
Reels me in like a floundering, snagged mack.


I get caught up in casting aspersions, but really
I'm angry at myself. For being so vulnerable,
so foolish, so soft. So hurtable. So willing and compliant.


Truth be told, thoughts of you are always on my mind.
I have just done well to keep them at bay and host
the pretense of being over you. After all, it seemed
the only civilized thing to do since you moved on so
unceremoniously.


I don't want to be sending you well wishes.
I don't want to hold hands and act like all is well.

Freedom is what I desire; the same cool ability
to sever all ties that served you so well. I want
to manage my emotions efficiently and business-like.


But this is a drug, harrowing and relentless in its
pursuit. You super-charge me like no other.
It's all flat line until you bring my pulse into the range.

Emotions rage and fall. Heartbeat quickens and dies.
I normalize and then...POW! Right in the kisser.
A flash, a notion, a glimpse. A remembrance.
A whisper.
Lightness becomes lightning bolt.

I crave release.
Complete distance seems the key.
Burn it to the ground, salt the earth,
erase all memories.

It sounds good on paper.

Questions to Ask Before Taking On (and Taking Over) the World

Who is it that told you
   that what you want can't be had?
Broke your spirit, condemned you,
   made you feel bad?
Who crafted a soul
   afraid to speak up?
What caused all this trauma,
   drama, and domestic dust-up?

Why did you listen?
Why did you believe?
Why did you ask?
(You're not theirs to conceive.)

What law is in place
   preventing your good?
Who gives a flip
   if you're misunderstood?

Is anyone invested in you making right?
In how you survive the harrowing night?
What part of alone do you not comprehend?
We were not meant for our wills to bend.

When will you start deciding for self?
Stop sitting around unused on the shelf?
What sign from above are you waiting for?
It's all up to you to open that door.

The Sweet Spot

Sometimes I wonder if a castration would just be easier.

A chemical one, like they give sex offenders,

perhaps, in lieu of all that mess.

Or a lock box...what did they call them?

Chastity belt. For a man.

Or just go in for neuro-surgery and

cut out the response centers in the brain.

At this point, it's like an appendix or a little toe;

it serves no purpose, so what're we keeping it around for.

Really and truly, I am Over It.

Gone beyond the mountain and come back again.

Done.

It has been so incredibly long since I have

known the touch of another,

and I think everything down there has gone Turtle;

it has slid back in, honey.

"You're not gonna pay me any mind? Screw you, I'm leaving

this party alone!"

Kiss it; don't miss it.

Some things increase the pain;

like, just for instance, the fact that my decrepit 75 year old

mother is knocking boots more often than me.

Yes, I wish I didn't know either, trust me.

(shudder)

I think if I saw a live-and-in-person naked man

at this point, I would do one or all of the following;

A. Fall out laughing

B. Pass out from fear and confusion

C. Stand gaping and drooling, unable to interact

D. Start screaming hysterically

I shit you not; I am a fagging basket case

at this point. I am so socially gummed up now,

so out of practice even talking to other guys,

certainly out of habit of knowing any gay men...

it has become a cluster fuck.

Or, a cluster non-fuck, as the case may be.

I know that pornography has kind of

ruined the whole sexual connection of the

average workaday world, but really, I prefer

porn with its pristine and unrealistic images,

it's ability to be 'muted' on a whim, the

ability to lay where you're at when through and

not have to entertain (or rate, or listen to)

another person.

No 'when are we getting together again' horseshit.

No obligation.

No feelings.

No unexpectedness or pain.

Maybe I'll hang on to my junk for the near future.

It's one of those things; not easily rectified once

done, so perhaps some discretion is in order.

Like anything else; the minute you get rid of it,

that's exactly when you'll find a need for it.

Damn.

Lions Between Contentment and Contentiousness

only those who wish to use you

as a doormat will tell you

that being a doormat is the way to be






anyone who wishes you to believe

that they have the absolute answers


has obviously already pegged you as a sap






giving up your own mind and insights

is the first step


on a very dangerous ride






submissiveness,

victimhood,

dependency,

enslavement,


domestication are all very subtle shades

of the same prison.



Lack of Humility

is not most men's trouble;

it is their Salvation.