Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless

Dear Minors

Use your common sense, ladies. You know you shouldn’t be following me.

You’re adorable, I appreciate your enthusiasm, and I hope you find an age-appropriate writer to follow who will lead you through an age-appropriate exploration of your sexuality. I wish you nothing but the best.

But I’m writing stuff here that’s just not for you, not yet. You’re still making the decisions that will determine what You 1.0 is going to be, and you don’t need my brand of mindfuckery gumming up the works.

Also, I’ve got no interest in meeting Chris Hansen, so… there’s that.

Run along now, kids. Go save the world or something.

Feedback Loops

I’m a horrid procrastinator because I’m an egregiously obsessive perfectionist with a firm grasp on reality. I frequently refuse to reply to messages, not because I don’t want to talk, but because I don’t want to spend an hour precisely articulating a response.

Interestingly, I also happen to think it’s kind of hot when girls get huffy at being ignored… y’know, stomping their widdle feet and fweatening to take dere toys and go home! I find indignant cunts so fuckin’ precious… it’s like watching a puppy bark at a mirror, only the puppy is a chick, and I’m going to fuck her when she reaches Peak Pout.

So my character flaw frequently leads to amusement and erections. You can see, I’m sure, how this can become complicated.

Memories, 2014

Earlier today, I spent a good 10-15 minutes chewing out this girl I like, venting every bit of contempt I could muster upon her. I started picking at her most personal scars, mocking her life choices, and belittling her pain. It was entirely extemporaneous, so it was a bit scattered, but I worked hard to express to her —in excruciating detail— how little respect I had for her as a human being, and how stupid I felt for wasting the time to tell her any of this. And how, despite all of the above, I’m still a better daddy than she’s ever had in her life.

When she began begging to cum, I almost hit “End Call”. (If we’d been in bed together, I definitely would have kicked her to the floor.) As it was, her eyes were watering and she had a long, yelping orgasm before I finally put an end to it.

…

And the moral of the story is: bitches are magic.

There will always be someone trying to fix you.

People don’t like the idea of nothingness. It’s why they make cities and babies and gods; they need to fill the spaces in and around themselves to ward off the creeping sense that the only meaning in anything is that which they’ve put into it.

So when you flatly accept that you’re nothing, that you are an emptiness that exists only to be filled, it’s like admitting you’re everything that frightens them. You are failure, and hopelessness, and the void. Your embrace of your own insignificance is, to their ears, a grating dissonance; your life sings in the wrong key, and they need to tune you up.

I like cuddling after sex.

She thinks I’ve caged her in my embrace because I’m caught up in the afterglow of our deviant coupling, but really, I’m just keeping her from going to the bathroom to pee.

One of the secrets of life is knowing that no matter how hard she cums, nothing will make a girl spend her week thinking about you more consistently than introducing her to Mr. Bladder Infection.

Cranky Old Man Shit: Slurred

It’s been correctly observed that I lean heavily on cheap slurs like “cunt”, “whore”, and “slut” in my writing, and I’ll grant you, I’m probably a touch lazy about it on occasion. But in my defense, please bear in mind that I’m trying to manipulate otherwise-reasonable women into masturbating to perverted prose poetry; I need all the help I can get.

So yeah, “cunt” is a rather primitive cudgel, but I find that waving it around a bit helps keep their attention while I quietly cut them with their favorite knives.