Toilet Rumination #130 (Author’s Note)

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Nothing in this based on an actual person. I do not endorse any kind of harm or violence done to anyone. I am discussing subversive ideas through fiction.

Hello. This is your author speaking. This is not a toilet rumination but more of an effort or attempt to explain. I have been absent from these ruminations for some time. That is fine. I often don’t see the point in writing these ruminations. I mean, isn’t there better things I can be doing with my time? I don’t often see the point in blogging in the way that I do. Maybe I am revealing too much information about myself and this often causes me to retract or not participate in writing on the internet. It is true that my ruminations are one aspect of my personality. Not my entire personality. Much of it is embellished. I have a tendency towards the hyperbolic and may say things that I do not feel an hour later. So why bother? I will tell myself. Why post these transmissions or ruminations online to begin with? I have a great tendency to talk myself out of everything that I do. To not see the point in anything. I am one of the greatest and most under appreciated living existentialists. That is what I like to tell myself at least. The truth is that no one appreciates me for the man that I am. People appreciate me for other aspects of my being but not for who I truly am. So mostly I have to keep myself hidden. That is why I write these ruminations. It is me in my purest and most existential form. My goal with these ruminations is to create a character. A personality. A person born out from an aspect of my personality. When these ruminations are finished, if they are ever finished, my hope that a distinctive personality will grow out from them. A personality which is unique, subversive and entirely different from who I am. Of course there are aspects of myself in this but my hope is to create a monster not unlike Frankenstein. Sure, I am involved in this creation but I want to have my creation turn into something completely independent of me. So my goal is to write 500 ruminations. It seems like an impossible goal- but that is what I would like. Once I have completed the 500 ruminations I will go back and pick the most important ones and then create a book. From this book I hope my monster will arise. This is the intention at least. I just need fate or destiny on my side. I need to live long enough. I need to stay alive to complete my goal and life is never a certainty. One can only hope they have more time. No one knows for certain. I am sure that I will go away from these ruminations again and again. My hope is that I continue to return. I don’t care if people read them. This blog is a database. A rough draft. A space for me to amass 500 ruminations. If I have a few people reading them along the way- great. If not, that is ok also. The point is to create a monster that is born out of me but becomes completely distinctive from me. Maybe this monster will be the man I was never able or brave enough to become. Isn’t that what monster’s do? They are a reflection of what we are too afraid to be. Anyways, I just wanted to drop this line for whatever it is worth. Now back to the ruminating.

Toilet Rumination #126

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Nothing in this based on an actual person. I do not endorse any kind of harm or violence done to anyone. I am discussing subversive ideas through fiction.

I am looking to meet an attractive and slutty young woman to engage in sexual and perverted fun with. I would like her to be very attractive and perverted and fun. Maybe you could call this a party girl. I really want a woman who is hot and intelligent and will settle for nothing less. I know that I am a 47-year-old man but that does not matter. I am still very attractive despite my thinning hair. I am very well-dressed and have a very educated and refined aesthetic and literary sensibility. I am a rare human being. There are not many of me around. I know no one like me. So I deserve to have specific tastes. I deserve to not settle. I will hold out no matter how long I have to wait for this girl. I prefer the word girl to woman. I like youthful women. I do not like women who have grown old, uptight and stodgy. I am not interested in women who have let themselves sag. I prefer women or girls who have a very youthful, free and sexual spirit. I made the mistake of marrying a woman like this and it bites me in the ass most days. That is ok though. That is how it goes. These women are wild. They want to be having sex. They want to be being adored. They want to be naked and laughing. They want to be free and intellectually engaged. I get it. One man can not possibly satisfy this voracious spirit. These women are animals. They are yet to be fully domesticated by man. They are yet to become a man’s property. I can respect this. I want this kind of woman. This kind of woman is the most enjoyable to be sexual with. I just want a fun and kinky and perverted sexual experience with someone I do not know. Some hot and sexy girl with style who wants to talk, listen to music and be sexual. This would be nice. I am not looking for anything else. I have everything else I need in my life. I mean I am always looking for the most contemporary and obscure music and literature I can find. I am always looking for good food and a relaxing place to sit, listen and rest. But I would really like to find a perverted, kinky and highly orgasmic woman to be sexual with. To hang out around. To go out with and have some fun. I am not bored with my reclusive and domestic life. I like it. I have lots of time to read, listen to music, write and keep to myself. But it would be good to share my existence with another woman. I already have a beautiful wife but it would be fun to share my life and my mind with another sexy woman whom I have no issues with. I want the clean slate. I want the brand new. I want the no water under the bridge. I want the not yet corrupted. I want the full on sexual connection. Sounds like an enjoyable thing to engage in a few times a week. Not sure how I will met this woman because most women around where I live have sticks up their asses, but I still hope. I still try. I remain patient and keep an eye out.

My Failed Saturday Night

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Nothing in this based on an actual person. I do not endorse any kind of harm or violence done to anyone. I am discussing subversive ideas through fiction.

 

Saturday night was a failure. But was it really?

It was and it wasn’t. It was because I failed to get my hands on the object of my desire. I wasn’t able to scratch my itch- not even with pornography.

The goal of most people on a Saturday night is to scratch their itch so it is not still here on Sunday morning. This makes Sunday more relaxing and the work week ahead less dreadful. A Saturday night where that scratch is not itched,  is a failed night. I am still itchy.

What is the itch for me? It is the desire to have a perverted, sexual experience with a stranger. Few highs are better than the high of a sexual experience with a stranger. Some have talked about this experience as being just as transcendental as an LSD experience can be.

So I am wanting and wanting and wanting and wanting to have this experience. Last night I came close.

My wife was out and I had my house to myself. How wonderful this was. I celebrated my temporary bachelorhood by making myself a steak and potatoes dinner. I played records loud. I smoked a lot of pot. I walked around my house and garden and listened to various sounds.

When I was finished with my dinner and the dishes it was 10pm. Normally by 10pm I am in bed (or close to it) but my desire was keeping me awake. I figured it was Saturday night and I was a bachelor. I should shower, get dressed nicely and have a sexual experience. Why not? It is only one or two nights a week where I feel this free.

I didn’t want to go to a bar and meet a woman. What was the chance I would actually meet someone? Also, I do not want to meet a woman and have to go through all that song and dance in order to get her naked and in my bed doing perverted things. I want to fall in love with a slutty woman and when you are a married man it is always better (and easier) to pay the woman you want to make into your beloved whore.

I also lack the energy or interest in bullshit. When I meet a woman I am direct in saying what I want. I’m not looking for a relationship. I mean we can hang out once or twice a week and talk and get high but I am wanting sexual experiences. Even if you just sit there nude and let me stare and touch you.  Most women these days are terrified of or offended by this. They are looking for a life of banality.

So I went on my computer searching for escorts. I found a few very attractive ones. I sent them texts letting them know how hot I thought they were. We worked out prices. I sent verification pictures of my genitals. Then they asked me for my address and I would panic.

I wanted to do it but what if the escort came to my home and robbed me? What if she killed me? What if she was affiliated with some gang and was getting the low down on my house so someone could later rob me? I have very nice things in my home. I need to be cautious. I didn’t need these potential hassles in my life right now so I told all the escorts I texted with maybe another time.

On-line I found a brothel, a seedy hispanic brothel, 12 miles from my home. I decided to go give it a try. I smoked more pot, finished my craft beer and stuck $150 in my pocket. I wanted to stay home, get in bed and read a book. But I told myself it was Saturday night. I needed to go out in search of a degenerate experience or suburban living was going to turn me into a complete bore.

I got in my 1982 Westfalia camper van, which was freezing cold. It lacks heat so I smoked more pot. I was very stoned and worried effusively about getting pulled over. My white Volkswagen van sticks out. Especially in lesser parts of town. I stick out. Especially in lesser parts of town. I told myself what happens will happen, just try to be cool.

I took my old but still strong and hearty camper van on the freeway. I got it up to 70 miles an hour and felt like I was flying through space. The stove and closets rattled in the back, reminding me that I was driving an old and unstable house on wheels and should slow down. I was too stoned to be driving that fast.

As paranoid as I was, I had the greatest time of my night driving that van at high speeds on the freeway, while stoned. GoogleMaps led me to the location of the brothel and I stopped out front. I turned off my van and sat there in the dark. I wanted to see if anyone else would go in or come out. A few gunshot sounds reminded me I was in the Ontario ghetto. I smoked more pot and wondered if all the girls would be thick and large. I prefer skinny and petite ones.

Do I really want to spend the money? Do I really want to do this? I debated with myself. I smoked more pot and thought about too many things at once. I felt some nerves about walking up to the blue lit door but I realized I had been there before. The women were all heavy-set. Did I really want to take the chance? I could spend that money on records and books.

I always go through this rationalization process before paying for sex. I normally talk myself out of it because I don’t want to spend the money. I tell myself to go masturbate. But I do want to spend the money. I want to have a wild sexual experience with a whore, but each time I talk myself out of it. I am a writer. Not a rich man. I can’t spend that kind of money on sex. It is either books and records or sex for me. I always chose books and records unfortunately.

I decided to drive back home. When I turned my camper van on I received a text from one of the escorts I had texted earlier. She was very cute and young. She agreed to come to my house and spend a half hour with me for $120. I told her I was a writer. That was a deal.

She asked me to send a verification picture of my genitals. She sent me one of hers. I was under stimulated. I am not a fan of female genitals. I am making an effort to get more into them because this is what I am told a man does. Being a man who does not like female genitals is like being old and having an aversion to flowers. It doesn’t make sense.

I told her she would have to give me 15 minutes to get home and then I would send her a picture. She said ok.

I raced home. I drove so fast I missed the freeway entrance. I was spacing out. I was high. I was having a blast driving that van at a moderately high speeds. I was looking forward to having a whore over to my house.

When I got home I did what I needed to do. I took a picture with my pinky in it (as she requested). She said thanks. Then she asked me for my address. I freaked out. She was so hot. I wanted her to come over. I wanted to have a cute little whore in my marital bed. I had the money. The price was right. It was 12am and I was very high. It was the perfect time.

I smoked more pot.

But what if she came over and robbed me? What if she was a police officer and I was to get caught up in a sting operation? It would be terrible to get arrested and have a clan of cops in my house. My house is a sacred space and I didn’t want to invite that kind of trouble in. What if she shot me or poisoned me? I wanted to do it so bad but chickened out. I told her that I was very sorry but maybe another night. She told me to save her number in my phone. I did.

I then felt relieved of everything I feared but had that itch still eating away at me. I opened up my laptop and put some pornography on. I watched very cute girls doing really attractive things. I wished I was there and I orgasmed. This experience was not nearly as exciting as a sexual interaction with a human would have been.

I still itched

My night was a failure. I got in bed and read Brion Gysin’s novel “The Process.” I pulled my small dog up against my side. I read. I smoked more pot. I was happy to be alone. I tried not to think about how I had failed once again. But then I told myself that it was not at all a failure. At least you have a good story to tell. Then I fell into a deep sleep.

Toilet Rumination #123

I have five minutes to sit here on my toilet seat and ruminate. Man. I am so sick of this. I can’t stand this. I have to see so many clients today. I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t like seeing clients. It is brutal. I would rather be doing things I want to be doing like sitting on this toilet seat ruminating. I would rather be left alone in my bathroom. But I have to be stuck in a psychotherapy office listening to clients talk about their crap. I don’t even like that word client. What a cold word. They are my patients but I do not want to be seeing patients today. I have had it. But such is life. The reality of work is that it sucks. It sucks for everyone who has to work a job. It is the way it is in the capitalism of today. Working sucks. No one likes it. Everyone would rather be doing something else it is just that most people lie about this. They pretend to be happy with their work but they are lying. Working sucks. It is painful. It is just the way it goes. Stop complaining. Stop being in denial that things are this way. Accept life for what it is. Get off your toilet seat and go back to work. Suffer. Why should you be any different from everyone else? Work is horrible whether you are a waiter, novelist or a psychologist. Doesn’t matter. Go back to work now.

The Man With Binoculars In His Hands

It didn’t begin in my backyard. All of this began many years ago. It began when I stole my first pornography magazine at the age of 12 while visiting grandparents in Philadelphia.

Maybe it began before that. Maybe it began at the age of 4 when I woke in the middle of the night and saw my parents having a sex party in the wood hot tub in their backyard. It interests me how things seem to come full circle.

Backyards. Now that I think of it, backyards are the best place for this sort of thing. In a backyard you can have the privacy to do what you want as long as neighbors can not see in. Backyards are one of the final frontiers for places where one can not be spied on or seen.

Any great terrorist plot in the future will be devised in a backyard. But my exploits did not always take place in a backyard with a pair of binoculars in my hand. It was not always this easy.

I used to have to drive around for hours to find the perfect prostitute. And often I would not find her. When I did I would have to risk being captured by the police. Or I would have to go into strip clubs to find my pornographic bliss. But this was expensive and often a far commute from my urban home. Now that I live in the suburbs I have had to find other means.

As a renown psychologist I can not afford to go into the local strip clubs to find my pornographic bliss. Before when I was a nobody it was easier to remain obscure. Not any more. I am often perceived as only half of the man I really am. I can’t afford to have this half be seen. I would rather keep things in my backyard.

Now that I have a large backyard I decided that I mine as well put it to use. I have an attractive wife and an attractive girlfriend who are both willing to join me in my pornographic and perverted exploits.

I have never been a fan of sports. Too many people watching and interested in the same thing. This creates a kind of herd mentality. But I see the appeal of spectator sports. In today’s world of mass conformity it is up to each one of us to create our own unique form of a spectator sport. For me it happens to be watching my wife and girlfriend have sex with other men through binoculars while standing in my backyard.

There is a large window in my home’s front room. In this front room is a large and comfortable couch. At night I can stand in my backyard and look through binoculars into the front room. With lights on in the room it is impossible for those inside to see me standing outside. My girlfriend and wife know that I am watching, but the men they have met on Tinder have no idea. There are few greater pleasures in life than doing this.

I try to engage in this unique spectator sport at least once or twice a week. My wife will do it once and my girlfriend will do it once. Both seem to get off on knowing that I am watching and I will get off on watching them. I will stand under the dark midnight sky and with my hoodie over my head and my pants down, I will watch the show through my binoculars. What a thrill to be watching something you are not supposed to be watching! I will hear dogs barking in the distance and radio frequencies making their way through the sky. I am a man at peace. Fully turned on and fully in the moment. Isn’t this the point of any great spectator sport?

Sometimes I will try to get too close to the window and worry about being seen. The closer I am, the better my orgasm is (another great thing about doing this in your backyard is the ability to ejaculate wherever you want). The reason I call this a spectator sport is because there is that element of risk in trying not to be seen or caught while also finding the act of observation relaxing and thrilling.

When I am standing in my backyard watching my wife or girlfriend have sex with another man I will think nothing is better than this. I will feel proud of myself for not giving into the banal and conformist effects of living in a suburb. I will feel like I am subverting some huge force that tries to desexualize and marginalize all those who live in the suburbs. I will feel like the deviant that I want to be.

Successful psychologist by day and deviant backyard binocular man by night. This feels good to me. And if one does not find successful forms of having deviant fun while living in the suburbs, the suburbs will strangle you.

I’ve been able to learn a lot about the sexual habits of men. It is interesting to observe younger men and men in mid-age having sex. They all have different styles and the beauty and sexual skillfulness of my wife and girlfriend makes them all feel thrilled to be having the opportunity in a day and age when everything has become so sexually represive for men. I feel bad for men living in todays sexual climate and as a result am happy to share my slutty wife and girlfriend with some of them.

Sometimes I wonder if the suburbs have driven myself, my wife and my girlfriend mad. Are we doing what we are doing because of the stifling and suffocating effects of living in a suburb? Would we be behaving differently if we lived in a less conservative environment? Maybe we would have more fulfilling things to do with our time? But then I remember looking through my bedroom window and seeing my parents having a sex party in their backyard hot tub and I will be reminded that I was destined to be a man standing in his backyard at night with binoculars in his hands.

On Having One Testicle

When I used to meditate (with two testicles), I would have to have my pants down around my ankles. I looked ridiculous sitting there in lotus posture with my pants down and my underwear on. But I needed to do it. With my pants on the squeeze of my pants would create to much pressure on my testicles. It was terribly uncomfortable to meditate for a long duration of time with pants on.

Now that I only have one testicle, I do not have to deal with that problem much anymore. I can meditate with pants on, since the squeeze is more tolerable. But still I meditate with my pants down. It is a habit at this point.

I have a very difficult time breaking old habits and then creating newer ones. It is probably impossible for me. The moment I get into the grove of a newer, healthier habit it will not be long until the old habit takes over once again. I have a similar pattern with relationships.

I don’t understand why I am now writing about habits and patterns when I am supposed to be writing about having one testicle. ADHD? Maybe. My point is that having one testicle, instead of two, has changed many things about my life. At this point I would recommend that all men have a testicle removed.

Riding a bike becomes much more comfortable. You no longer have to get two testicles to fit on the bicycle seat. One fits much more comfortably.

Tight pants are easier to wear and a man should always prefer tighter pants over the more lose kind. At least if they would like to have some sex appeal. I am 47 or 48 years old and tight pants are the one thing still keeping me in the game. If not for tight pants my age, my thinning hair and my failing social reputation would cause me to have much less sex appeal.

Never underestimate the potential of tight pants. As a psychologist I work with many young men who are often quite upset about not being able to find a woman to have sex with. They complain about all kinds of inadequacies within themselves but they never consider their pants. All of them wear lose pants. I don’t often have the energy to tell them. Every young man must find their own way or be eaten up.

Also, as a psychologist I am not honest with my clients. I need them to like me so I refrain from telling them things that could really help them. Mostly because these things could cause them to hate me.

There are other benefits of only having one testicle. It is much easier for me to check for testicular cancer now. It is easier for me to give myself a testicle massage. It is easier for me to wash between my legs. It feels like there is less weight banging between my legs, interrupting my flow, as I thrust into a woman.

With the few prostitutes and slutty single women I have been sexual with since only having one testicle, my singular testicle is often a great source of conversation. Women seem very interested in my one testicle. They are curious to know how I lost my other testicle. They seem to have a good amount of pity for me. They seem to see me as less of an alpha threat and are willing to give me oral sex much more.

Women also seem to prefer putting one testicle in their mouth as opposed to two. They like rolling my testicle around in their mouth as if it were a hard candy they were sucking on. I did not receive this same treatment with two testicles.

With one testicle walking is easier. There is less friction between the legs. I will admit that for awhile after losing my right testicle, when walking I felt less confident. I would stare down at the ground and have a hunch in my gait. In fact I was less confident in all things after losing my right testicle. But gradually I learned that having one testicle did not make me less of a man. In fact, having one testicle has enhanced everything about my sex life.

Accept for the emotional connection in my marriage. But who needs emotional connections. Emotional connections only cause suffering.

My orgasms are more pleasurable than they have ever been. I presume this is because there are not two testicles competing for the pleasure. Sometimes my orgasms are so strong that I feel like I could explode. I do not remember this happening with two testicles.

With one testicle I now orgasm every single day. At the age of 47 or 48, I forget which one I am, I did not think I would be orgasming everyday. I certainly did not think that my orgasms would be stronger than they were in my youth.

If my one testicle were a human being, it would be a very fit and strong human. It gets that much of daily workout I imagine.

Also I have noticed that my sexual proclivities have changed since become a one testicled man. I was less sexually active when I had two testicles. Now with one testicle, all of my perversions have come forth. I want to act upon my perversions ever day instead of on the weekends (I assume this is because I only have one testicle now and as a result do not want to waste time). I am no longer ashamed to explore my perversion, to let my perversions run the show. This has changed my marriage and my relationship with my two girlfriends for the better.

I am not being hyperbolic when I say that my sex life has greatly improved since only having one testicle. Some may think that it is unfortunate that my emotional connection with my wife would have to decline a lot before my sex life could improve but that is the way it has always been for me. I imagine it is a normal part of male sexuality.

If the very reason for all existence is sex, then I see having one testicle as a very beneficial improvement upon my life.

Having one testicle has been a delightful experience. Losing the testicle was not fun but you can read about that adventure in my book, “Episodes From A Swollen Testicle.”

Even as I write this essay my pants are squeezing my testicle. But it does not hurt. It is not too much of a bother since there is only one testicle in there.

Toilet Rumination #116

I don’t care about you. I don’t care about me. This is my attitude right now. It is all catastrophic. I can’t get anything right. I am always doing everything wrong. I am not able to be in a human relationship. There is always difficulty and distress. I am often upsetting someone else. Is there people out there whom you can talk to about how you feel about their inabilities, their failures, their difficulties, their shortcomings and they will not erupt into a silently controlled rage? Where they will not break down into tears? Where they will not think that they and their life are shit? Are there people who can hear about how they are upsetting you, how they are making you feel anxious and uncomfortable and actually listen and understand without getting upset? Are there people who can actually implement the things you tell them about how they are falling short in their life and learn and grow as a result? Or is this just a fantasy? Why are our egos so precious? Why are we so damn fragile? Why do we have no capacity for constructive criticism but would rather just spend our lives hiding from ourselves? Spend our time on earth pushing away the obvious? I really don’t understand these things. It is difficult for me to be in a relationship and just let the person be free to be themselves. Is this even a possible thing? Aren’t those of us who let our partner be free to be themselves really just self-absorbed egoists who can’t focus on anything else but ourselves? I don’t know. I am a self-absorbed egoist also and maybe this is why I often tell my partner what I think they should be doing. Why can’t I back off? Why can’t I just live my own life in relationship? I seem incapable of having a healthy relationship with another human being and it is probably because I am incapable of feeling comfortable and content within myself and I project my disease all over the other person. I feel incapable and insecure in my own life so why not focus on another’s insecurities? This way I don’t have to deal with my own. Maybe this is it. I don’t know. I just feel incapable of not forcing someone away from me. Maybe a person with a stronger ego would be a better fit. Someone who takes more responsibility for their life and their well-being. But these people are never fun. They are not fun like the careless, reckless and self-destructive females I always seem to end up with. But what kind of price do I pay for getting involved with someone who struggles to manage their own life? I struggle to manage my own life. I can barely pay a bill. So I hook up with a fun and reckless person who is fun and reckless because they are reacting to the unmanagability of their own life and I see myself in them and I freak out. I focus on them. I get mad at them. I tell them what they need to do and they get all bent out of shape about it. But really I am just throwing out these messages to myself that seem directed at someone else. They are directed at myself. All of it. Obviously it is impossible to be good in a relationship unless you have your shit together. We hear this cliché often but ignore its underlying truth. If we are not able to keep our own shit together, manage our own lives we will just bring shit into any relationship we are in. Like lighting incense in a room, no matter how good the compatibility is between two people the smoke from the incense will fill the space until neither partners can breathe. Get your shit together before you get in bed with someone else (unless of course you just want to have sex with them and be gone before sun up).

Toilet Ruminations #115

My testicle aches. My legs are heavy. My body has endured a psychological storm. It is exhausting being in relationship with other people. Why do we do it to ourselves? It feels like relationships are one of the most unnatural things. Relationships must be a main cause of death. They are brutalizing. Why is it that we put so much power in another person to control how we feel? It seems like the ultimate weakness to be so brutalized by another human being. So effected and infected by the actions of another human being. It makes no sense. Rarely are human beings healthy supplements. Mostly they are cancers that consume us and screw us. But yet we allow them to. We give up all of our power and allow the relationship to colonize us. It makes no sense. Single people must be some of the happiest people around. There are few people in relationship who are not exhausting one another. The initial stages of a relationship can be non-brutalistic and fun but this never lasts. It is an imaginary relationship until the person knows what your poops smell like and is aware of how much you can stink. It is an imaginary relationship as long as everything is fun. Humans like to make up realities in their heads and this is why we construct these ideas about how things should be. Initial stages of a relationship line up with the ideas in our head about how relationships should be because it is in the initial stage of a relationship that things are imaginary. It is only over time that relationships grow real. And they become brutal. They become horrible for us. We give them too much of our power. We depend upon them too much for our survival. Our laziness in relationship is our downfall. Our inability to eradicate stuckness is our weakness. You see, the way I think we are inherently designed is to move from one relationship to another. To not get stuck in these epic saga like relationships which are dead long before their end. We are not supposed to stay in relationship with people when things get too real. When the relationship becomes too brutal. But we do. We do because we are afraid. We can’t live with the grief or the guilt. So we stay in these brutal confrontations with another human and we are upset and stressed out that we are upset and stressed out. But what did we expect? Of course we are upset. We are trying to get milk from a dead and emaciated cow. The relationship is not supposed to last for this long but we carry it on because of a few good days that we have here and there. It is ok to love someone so much and send them on their way because the relationship has become too real. Once a relationship leaves the imaginary stage, ideally we should move on because after is nothing but trouble. Nothing but mutual brutality. We need to be more creative in how we think of relationships. We are too limited in our relationship practices. End the relationship but still have sex and be partners. Turn girlfriends into whores. Make your husband your freind who you have sex with when you want. Collect lovers that were once your signifigant other. Break up but still be good friends. Separate but still get naked with one another now and then. Fall in love with someone else, break up and be friends with benefits while starting a new relationship. There are all kinds of creative antidotes to the antiquated relationship systems that we now employ. They are not healthy for us. They are destroying us. Our inability to stop grasping at something which is long dead is perpetuating our suffering. Fall in love with someone else. Fall in love with yourself. Let the relationship go for Christ sake. Move on. Relationship to relationship. This is how it is supposed to be. Not this long and extended, brutalizing, treacherous, life sucking, body destroying, hair thinning, cellulite creating, psychologically poisoning, emotionally taxing thing that we have made it.

Toilet Rumination #114

I am an anger man. There is anger in every part of me. How is it that I have not reconciled with this fundamental aspect of my being for so long? There is a tremendous amount of anger inside. I am saturated in anger like a cotton ball in a bucket of blood. My anger is the source of everything that has kept me confined. I have not been proud of my anger. I hide my anger in public in the same way that I hide my penis. I try to keep these things from the general public for fear of what would happen if they were seen. Anger does not flatter a person. Anger is like a stench. It is dampening. It is troublesome. Who is attracted to anger? Who wants to be around anger? Who sees anger as an enviable attainment or as the mark of an accomplished man? Who is turned on by anger? Who sees anger as a reputable state of being? Who will voluntarily give their money for services rendered by a man saturated in anger? No, it is best that I have kept my anger disclosed from the world. It is best that I have devised exacting strategies to keep my anger confined. My anger no longer explodes upon the world. My anger is subdued but it still boils. Where my anger once manifested as rage and panic now it is a general disdain and agitation. It is also an anxiety. Anger is what exists behind my fear. The fear of being perceived as the angry man that I am. The fear of not being able to be myself around others because I am an angry man. It is easier to hide away. To keep myself from the world. Acting as if I have little or no anger in me is a part that I do not enjoy playing because it is not who I am. This less angry person who appears in front of you is a manufactured part to keep you from seeing the angry and disdainful man that I am. I prefer to avoid all others than to play a part. The part I play angers me and I am often not in the mood for it. This is why I will avoid you if I see you in public. I am often envious of those who are proud in their anger and contempt for everything. These people have attained something I have been trained to deny and fabricate. I come from a long lineage of very angry men (great grandfather, grandfather, father) who pretend to be your best friend. I have been trained by the angriest of men who were and are very well liked in their communities because they are expert at disguising the fact that they are angry men. Anger must have played a part in my great grandfather’s suicide. I mean who throws themselves and their lover infront of a train? An angry man. Anger was a word seldom spoken in the home I grew up in even though my father was angry all the time. To be seen as being angry would mean he would have to admit that his life was just a made up part that he was playing to hide his anger. I am more willing to admit and confront this anger within me. Yes, I am an anger man. There is anger in every ounce of my bone. I don’t doubt that it is a toxic influence on those closest to me. My poor wife. She prefers keeping me stoned most of the time because this dissipates my anger and makes me much more pleasant and kind to be around. When stoned I experience the absence of anger. I experience what a life without contempt, indignation, hatred, jealousy and utter disdain feels like. I must admit that I find it quit nice. I find it liberating even though I am apprehensive about using that word. So liberating that I prefer the state of being stoned over the sober state. Stoned life allows me to feel much more pleasant towards my wife and towards everything I do. I am in a state of ease. I have less cares in the world. I can feel pleasure, which is the first thing anger subtracts from an angry person’s life. It is only when I am not stoned that everything will piss me off once again. Even now. I am not stoned and my wife is knocking on the bathroom door. Does she not know to leave me alone when I am in here? How many times have I told her that when the bathroom door is closed I am in a deep state of rumination and am not to be bothered? Why the hell is she knocking on the door? What could be so important? Why can’t she figure it out for herself? Why the hell is she disturbing me?! F………………..

Toilet Rumination #113

Dear dad. I am composing this letter to you in my head while I am sitting on the toilet. How are you? I am doing ok. It is day-to-day with me. Somedays are very difficult and I am terrified by cancer, heart disease, my wife fucking up our entire lives and not having enough money. Other days I am just happy to be alive and do not think about these things. I think that nothing lasts forever and I should just have fun now because sooner or later all will be gone. This is a good head space to be in but if I stay in it for too long I freak out. But I have been using marijuana. I vaporize it from the moment I wake until the moment I sleep. It is helpful. It helps me to feel better, worry less, get the things I need to get done, feel more pleasure and have more sex. My wife has been giving me a lot of oral sex recently. Last night she gave me oral sex for an hour as I watched cam girls on my laptop and got very stoned. It was great. I slept like a baby and had no worries in the world. Everything is good enough now. I am trying to make my living as a writer and artist but I understand this will take a lifetime. In the meantime I am just hustling. I am doing what I have to do to survive but I really do not give a rats ass about the work I do. I am just pretending. I am just hustling the general public. Trying to make enough money to get by so I can keep living the life I want to live. It is not difficult to hustle people. They are suckers. If things look a certain way they will buy in. So I go with the stupidity of other people and try to make as much as I can. Of course I do a good job in my work. I work hard and am completly drained by the end of the week. Hustling takes everything out of a person but its my only choice. I refuse to buy into this peice of shit system.  I know you don’t like this. You are a successful and upstanding man. A retired surgeon of the highest order. People think you are amazing. But we both know you are completely full of shit. We know that all that money you have made has allowed you to hide behind this false image. In reality we both know that you are an asshole. You are a fake son of a bitch who treats his wife like shit. You are angry all the time because you know you sold out. You know you are not doing what you want to be doing even though you will deny it till your death. We both know that you basically hate your life. You feel so alone (like I do). The fact that you are always making such an effort to point out how wonderful your life is is a dead give away that your life sucks. We both know this dad. Yes, you have a huge, modern home in a very exclusive mountain community. Yes, everyone around you is very wealthy. Yes, it appears that you have made it in your life. It is so beautiful everywhere around you, how could your life possibly stink of shit? But it does dad. We both know this. You are a fool and a liar. But I know you think you are the shit. But you have been conned by a society that wants you to believe that happiness is to be found in status, material possessions and money. But you know it’s bullshit. You know that all your rich friends are miserable assholes. How empty and vapid it all is, right? I know you don’t like me saying any of this and I am sorry. I just want to be honest with you about how full of shit you are. It makes me very uncomfortable to be around because I have to pretend like I am buying into and enjoying your bullshit. But whatever. I let you do you. I let you be you even though you can’t let anyone be themselves. You hold everyone to an impossible standard. Everyone needs to meet your exact needs. This is why you are a son of a bitch. A messed up mother f_____r. You have your good sides as well. I know. You do nice things for people. But you are still an entitled, rich asshole. I am only telling you all of this because in a few days I will be visiting you. I will be driving the twelve hours to come stay in your beautiful abode for a few days. It will be nice to live like the rich for a few days. But just know that I would rather not come. I don’t like being in that place where you live. But I am not very thrilled about the place that I live in either. I want to get out of here for a while. I want to go someplace different. I am sick of where I live. It is human bondage. I want to get lost for awhile. Escape from the prison of this life. But it is just important to me that I let you know how I feel before I arrive. I don’t want to have to be full of shit like you this time. Just want to let you know where I stand, and I hope that we can have a good time. I am looking forward to having you pay for everything. I am looking forward to all the free good food and booze. I am looking forward to being in the snow and mountains. I am looking forward to getting the hell away from this place I live in and going to your magical paradise. I am not looking forward to seeing you and all your fake friends but that is ok. I am sure we will have a nice time. See you in a few days. Take care dad.