A Post About Nothing
This is the slowest period ever. I suppose I could think of things to do at work today, but I really can’t. I know in two weeks I’m going to be hit with a massive influx of work, but until then I’m here twiddling my thumbs (and obviously writing an lj post about nothing).
A post about nothing should contain some sort of juicy gossip, just to keep readers interest perked, so here goes. Last Wednesday I picked a boy up on the street, took him home and slept with him. Compared to others sexual exploits (::cough:: Klingrap ::cough::) this is quite nothing, but to me this seems to be the equivalent of being a two cent whore or perhaps giving blow jobs in a back alley while simultaneously having hypodermic needles shoved in me. Okay maybe not as awful as the later, but the general idea is now tenable.
Over the weekend I played with thing I ought not to have. Thankfully everyone has reported on this long before I, so I feel it unnecessary to elaborate, except to say that I know believe those awful things are meant for those of sound mind and body versus the already overly anxious psycho-freak whose tenuous grasp of sanity is challenged every day by simply getting up and walking down the street to work-this is an improvement, there were the dark days where even this minor action made me irascible sent me into hyperbolic diatribes that one might typically associate with schizophrenic homeless people.
And since I have no self reflection and can scarcely ever determine what will hurl me back to these manic states, when the boy from the street phoned Tuesday night, I decided it would be fine if he came over for another quick romp. I rationalized it as wanting to know what he looked like-as I was far to wasted to remember anything precisely. Upon arrival he offered me more of what I had over the weekend (this phrasing is akin to M. Knight Shyamalan’s terrible illusions of ‘those of whom we do not speak’). This sent me into a manic soliloquy about desperate search this desperate search for fulfillment through auxiliary substances when none of chose to internalize this need in the slightest and seek out our own betterment to placate this need. “Try yoga,” he suggests. That he escaped my apartment alive is a real credit to my newly attained tolerance-as previously I would have just ripped his head off like a female black widow after mating.
Grr! I hate this post. It is almost as pointlessly narrative as a greg the boyfriend post. Perhaps when I’m on better terms with myself I’ll think about posting something worth while.
A post about nothing should contain some sort of juicy gossip, just to keep readers interest perked, so here goes. Last Wednesday I picked a boy up on the street, took him home and slept with him. Compared to others sexual exploits (::cough:: Klingrap ::cough::) this is quite nothing, but to me this seems to be the equivalent of being a two cent whore or perhaps giving blow jobs in a back alley while simultaneously having hypodermic needles shoved in me. Okay maybe not as awful as the later, but the general idea is now tenable.
Over the weekend I played with thing I ought not to have. Thankfully everyone has reported on this long before I, so I feel it unnecessary to elaborate, except to say that I know believe those awful things are meant for those of sound mind and body versus the already overly anxious psycho-freak whose tenuous grasp of sanity is challenged every day by simply getting up and walking down the street to work-this is an improvement, there were the dark days where even this minor action made me irascible sent me into hyperbolic diatribes that one might typically associate with schizophrenic homeless people.
And since I have no self reflection and can scarcely ever determine what will hurl me back to these manic states, when the boy from the street phoned Tuesday night, I decided it would be fine if he came over for another quick romp. I rationalized it as wanting to know what he looked like-as I was far to wasted to remember anything precisely. Upon arrival he offered me more of what I had over the weekend (this phrasing is akin to M. Knight Shyamalan’s terrible illusions of ‘those of whom we do not speak’). This sent me into a manic soliloquy about desperate search this desperate search for fulfillment through auxiliary substances when none of chose to internalize this need in the slightest and seek out our own betterment to placate this need. “Try yoga,” he suggests. That he escaped my apartment alive is a real credit to my newly attained tolerance-as previously I would have just ripped his head off like a female black widow after mating.
Grr! I hate this post. It is almost as pointlessly narrative as a greg the boyfriend post. Perhaps when I’m on better terms with myself I’ll think about posting something worth while.