Hence My Self

*fun fact – I wrote this the night before Valentine’s Day, a week into sobriety, admittedly distant from unblemished reflection, staggering between heartache and exhaustion until getting arrested for an unpaid ticket warrant from Farmers Branch (my least favorite appendage of the metroplex)…

     I know that I said I was retiring this blog, and I am. I just wanted to do a proper send-off. What follows are my current thoughts on the title and overall tone, as well as some favorite quotes, but most importantly why I’m moving on. I’ve realized and perhaps actualized a great deal of therapeutic value from doing this, and I appreciate the support/feedback that some of you have offered. I’m hoping to spend a respectable amount of free time in the next year finishing this fucking novel, if for no other reason at this point than to just have it done.
I realize that the majority of these essays(?) have been diary-ish (diarrheic?) and I may continue that as a personal exercise/ventilation. For now, I’ll put them aside as evidence of my ever-dwindling assertion that I’m saying something important, or at least culturally/intellectually(?) relevant. This thing ran the gauntlet of idealism, narcissism, neuroses, and shame. There were painful reminders of privileged flamboyance amidst some otherwise respectable musings. I do like what I have to say about love. I still feel that way, and still rely on optimism, daily, adamantly… otherwise the lights go out and the ice cream melts.
I apologize for the scattered nature of the excerpts, but that’s just how it’s going to be, so maybe I’m not apologizing? Also, the random titles left in are exactly that...
Anyhoo, it’s been an experience, and I hope hugs are soon. Hearts & Farts (new blog title?)
 
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go process why for the past nine months I’ve been thinking about marriage…

 
Hence My Self Loathing - too arrogant and artsy. It’s like saying, “Oh, the anguish of my original thoughts that I desperately want you to admire so I can ignore you and further justify my being an asshole.” And that’s not the message here (though God knows it used to be.) I just don’t want to hide behind the cop-out of hating myself in order to deflect responsibility. Self-worth spreads, and it’s not only selfish and small to reject it, but insulting to those who offer their friendship, in that you’re invalidating their intimacy within your chicken-shit reluctance to actualize. Be sad, release endorphins, and then get out of fucking bed because shit needs to happen. HAPPEN.


(No, Don't) Fuck It   - (the most recent, and probably best)

I embraced a transient, devil-may-care philosophy because I never saw or felt (understood) the merit in common foundations, and when confronted by the beautiful people who offered an inkling of such ideas, merely as an option towards a shared happiness, possible because I may finally be content with myself at least enough to offer something besides tasteless asides, I panicked. It was an affront to my psychic anchor, that questionable ideal that I didn’t need anything and could exist as a vapor.

There was safety in the lack of material weight. I was free to continue to tread, to float, because it was cost-free in almost every sense. I readied myself to be childless, doubly-divorced, forever rebellious (against whatever ya got) because it fit a lifestyle I had created rather than earned or bothered to desire, and it led to simple loneliness.

I want my family to grow beyond basic maintenance, to experience more together instead of feeling shackled by minimal correspondence through an ever-dwindling medium. 

Don’t try to tell me we’re playing chess on what is clearly a checkers board

Part of the joy I find in writing these... things, are the epiphanies and opportunities that pop up unexpectedly throughout the neurotic voyage.

But isolationism doesn't work. You can't shut yourself off from the world and expect not to be sucked back into its problems. Sure, you can get a hotel room and close the drapes and ignore texts, but that's not going to stop the Japanese from bombing the shit out of you (with housekeeping knocks, or whatever).

Because as weird as they are and as lost as you can get within the existential dilemma of their stares, babies are alright.

You see where the mind goes when it's tucked away from humanity? Jerking off through a haze of troubled thoughts and questionable ethics that are shouted down by your better angels for recognition of the ever-looming optimism inherent in everyday victories and pleasant sights and sounds and strangers, flaunting their simple grace in extended perfection as you're reminded of why the extremes of newborns and Hitler are worth the often muddled middle, regardless of the confusion your analysis of it may bring, because the expansion of life, thought, and community, the greater numbers within the argument towards a greater life, the basic symbolism of meaningful progression through procreation, is always stronger than these babyfucking, Nazi agendas.   – (I was living in a hotel and didn’t realize how bad it was going)

I had reached my worst here, and relished the chance to reflect within some far away opportunity. Darkened seasons changed as albums of gothic folk poured over symbolic walks down snowy drives and trans-vaginal interstates of spoiled lives.   – (Colorado, Jan. 2013)

SWM, Drunk & Confused...

Yes, it’s a bit masturbatory, but so are blogs, and so is dating, as I’m about to explain and then recant before just landing in an ambiguous world of over-thought references and genital allusions, replete with heartfelt judgments and apologies and neurotic attempts at revolutionary optimism through various degrees of relations and this sentence is kind of getting away from me…   - (used this run-on device often…)

I don’t want to belong, I want to believe.

It’s great to have someone, and even better to share your life with as many people and in as many special ways as possible, but there are degrees. There are those incomprehensible interactions that stir your anxieties in the most wonderful way, and knowing that feeling, the awareness of its recurring existence, is enough of an inspiration to keep me in wait. It’s not so much holding out as it is just understanding what’s worth the time and effort.

I know we like to think that casual sex exists, but it doesn’t. It always means something to someone, and often much more to one than the other, and that’s not fair. You don’t want to be on either end of that ignorance.

Relationships shouldn’t be about figuring out a system by which your satisfactions will be met by the ideal person of your choosing. You have to allow for the wonderful idiosyncrasies of natural attraction, human error, the fuck-ups and fuck-downs and fuck-sideways, if you’ve got the leg strength.

During Patricia's introduction, another large woman approaches, angrily, like a charging rhino in a petting zoo for, well, fat rhinos, apparently.

"The problem is... 2 all beef Patties, Special Ross, and Lester G. pickin' bunyuns on a Sesame Street bus."

They're not all perfect, and by that I simply mean that they're not all perfect for me, which is fine. I prefer a twat with character. None of this vapid vag, stale tail, ho-hum cum bum crap. Save the lackluster sackbusters for somebody else. Your perfectly pruned patches of pubic placidity can play pussy-pet for other people's penasia.

I love a good clean joke as much as I love a dirty vagina, and I love a dirty joke as much as a good clean asshole...   – (sorrynotsorry)

I can't speak for other people and the things they've been through that have brought them to whatever reservations or feelings they have regarding sex, and I wouldn't want to be that kind of asshole, though I'm sure that I frequently am.
I certainly can't speak for women. Without running this tangent for too long, I just want to throw out the basic idea that men don't understand the concept of accepting that level of invasion. Having my finger up my ass will never allow me to comprehend a lifelong inundation of "things will be put inside of you, and some you're supposed to enjoy, the most." Men don't have to come to terms with their body & sexuality that way. I can't imagine that prepubescent journey.

There's plenty of science to back up the drive for humans to mate, but don't we like to believe that there's something else? Something special that propels us to earn that next level of understanding and shared experience with this particular person?

Nature's sorcery can work in some fucked up and awesome ways that draw you to people who are beautiful just for you. It's a kind of love that you can't extend to everyone, though you'll try with some, and fail, wonderfully. True love is a magic that human beings can't create. It's a more difficult love, one in which the pursuit of the previously stated ideas of respect and understanding can be as life-affirming as the payoff.

Romance is a belief, a faith. It's idealism. Sometimes it's disguised within a greater illness, but in its purest form, romance is just a bubble that never pops. It's a commitment to keeping magic alive. It's true love in action.

Romantic true love sex is the best because it's earned. You've been through the previous gauntlet and know that you're sharing the best parts of the best things with the best person, and as much love as you can have for yourself, your friends, your family and everyone else, the love, romance, and sex that you fully experience with this person makes you live all the other ones better.

I can't really discuss childhood without addressing adulthood, a concept that I feel is ambiguous if existent. People seem eager to reach this label, and I understand the reasoning behind measuring certain achievements in that manner. You've made it to the next level, so you must be doing something right. There's also a basic need to simply do what's next, to move forward. It's exciting to live differently and progressively. Little answers along the way create the comfort that you have some things figured out, that life is manageable, that getting up and cleaning and working and shitting are necessary routines in order for the balance of existence, the moments of clarity and happiness and peace and harmony and-WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?   - (another common device)

I can trace genuine epiphanies in my life to the books that caused them more easily than people or events. That doesn't seem entirely fair to the overwhelmingly informative and substantial people I've encountered, but part of being blocked off emotionally is that you have more of your "A-HA!" moments by yourself. By meeting said people and experiencing said events, the seeds were planted for later understanding. Along come the right words strung together in the right way and BOOM! Growth.
Oh, I guess that's what learning is. Or maturation. Or life. All the same.

I miss Paul Reiser. Did you know that he co-wrote the Mad About You theme, and even played the piano on the track? I hope he's well.
Speaking of TV theme songs, the Monty Python one is actually American. I think it's Sousa... (looking it up)... yeah, Sousa.
Bob's Burgers. Hilarious. H. Jon Benjamin can do no wrong. Hilarious Jon Benjamin, with his Hobbit body and piercing blue eyes...   - (random thoughts on television)

Setting aside the reason being that you're with child or have anger management issues, or both, it seems to me that women actually do drink whiskey.   – (this is from the first article I was paid to write)

Anyway, before lunch I popped a pain pill, grabbed my Leatherman, tipped my flask of whiskey and got going.   – (yup, I tried to pull my own tooth. Tough times)

"Get this fucking abortion dentata out of my face!"

Also, all the donkeys in Jerusalem were total sluts.

People have been fucking sheep since the beginning of sheep (or people), and it is a pastime that has survived every form of civilization we've created. Human beings have been fucking their relatives throughout history as well, sometimes to great success (with the exception of Charles II of Spain)

Old Floaty Toes was an odd duck.   – (Jesus)

Human evolution has become a failure for the simple reason that we haven't evolved our humanity.

When I consider all of this; that the current evolution of our species disinterests me; that the sick and the poor will likely be left to suffer and die; that human beings can more easily imagine taking a life before relinquishing their property; that people who fuck animals and their relatives are shunned without any attempt at understanding... I can't help but realize that it kind of comes across like I really want your permission to fuck a sheep.

"Hey! Give me that back, you crazy old yeast mattress" I totally didn't say.

Short term problem solving is usually the only kind we're blessed with achieving, so it warrants joy and a sense of accomplishment. It's like solving a crossword puzzle.

Every time I begin to tell a story about myself from the past 9-10 years, I try to preface it by describing how drunk/fucked up I was   - (Every. Time)

Looking back, it was probably rather foolish to think that my desire of the other prostitute would hurt any feelings, but I truly believe that in my own mis-managed way, I was trying to treat these objects like women.   – (UGH)

My Geisha in Gilly Hicks

Brecklyn has a tender, seraphic touch, albeit hardy and virile when necessary. I swear, the man has the hands of a Messianic masseuse, or an 11 year old Korean seamstress; they're downright Dickensian.   – (I’m not even gonna explain this)

The Rumble in the Vajungle

Basically I'm looking to amuse myself, which perhaps is the basis of the entire problem. I'm consistently putting myself first.
When I focus more on my own self-interest, especially when it comes to things as trivial as jokes, I'm already being disrespectful. And while it's important to be honest with yourself, it's better to make the small effort of recognizing why being mindful and respectful of others is mutually beneficial.

You're always living in the moment; you just want a different moment.

Saying out loud how nice or enjoyable things are doesn't ruin the moment. It actually makes it better.   – lifted from Vonnegut. Plenty of interpretive plagiary here

There is absolutely nothing that feels better than accomplishment, and it does not require validity. The happiness that follows, however, only survives when it is shared.

Everyone always wants to be cool. Even people who are already cool. Especially people who are already cool. When people try to act uncool, it is a desperate attempt to look cool. People who are uncool are too busy working to worry about seeming cool. Eventually, they will become the people who accomplish things in life, and will possess greater currency than coolness.

I have shuffled off those coital curls, those phallic follicles, those amber waves of brain.   - pubes

I had to masturbate with Neosporin for weeks.

Susan Ursitti-ing: (usually not) A Stand-Up Routine   - (butt-fucking. Susan Ursitti played Boof in Teen Wolf)

"Oh, you know what? This is actually my roommate's penis. That's why it's not doing so well.

If only had I experienced true prejudice would I then be able to justify my morose existential stagnancy. It would validate my depression, and give me character instead of guilt.

I have no idea what it's like to be thought of and treated as "less than.” I've never been consistently reminded by society that I am not the norm.

There are starving children in Africa for whom I could buy thousands of blowies for that money.   – (as good a way as any to end)