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Thinking with my Cock, again. before/after
Sensimilla forever...Run, Lola, Run...finality in droves....Valentine's Day Menacings...down, thinking with my cock, again...Thoughts of God on Sunday
Smoking down the last bowl of some commercial I had around watching run, lola run which I saw in Chicago at the 'Get Me High Lounge', where all kind of evil goes down, it occurred to me:
A great deal of finality revoved around me this weekend, at least, I'd like to think so.
But it was only two occurences. Three marks a pattern.
One was friday night. When roomie and I went to the bar, we met a friend of his, Bob, a local chef at a distinguished retstaurant. He was leaving for Maui in a few weeks to get married, and he had quite a few people there from his restaurant, including his beau, and this other little girl who showed a healthy interest in me, but later turned out to be married. In between fantasizing about bob's fiance' incredible, natural Dick Sucking Lips, other wise known as DSL's in the paralance of the tragicaly unhip, I found out this little girl was young, kinda' hot, and engaged. So started to act very crudely, mostly due to the angst of being mislead. I remember offering to masturbate in front of her. Short term memory fails me, once again. I do think I scared her right back into the arms of her guy, straight with no games, for the next ten to fifteen years.
The other finality was that spooky spiritual thing yesterday.
I'd fuck lola, but I don't know why. She's probably unshaven euro-trash, but I don't care. Just wanted you to know.
And seeing the Prince of Egypt today right after my awake and bake, at about one or one thirty due to being shit housed saturday, coupled with the heavy vicserality of the church made me realize something.
I think about God a lot. I'm always trying to reason it (It?) out. I've come up with a lot of different concepts.
As far as spirits or anything goes, I generally don't talk about it, 'cause people look at me like their trying to pass a peach pit through their rectum, as the dawning realization spreads across their face, that I may or may not be completley there.
I do not necessarily belive that there are soul floating around, I just can't prove there aren't any.
I go with what I can reason, and what I feel. I cannot prove that there are or aren't souls floating around certain places, or with certain people or just hanging, doing whatever it is that spooky bitches do.
I don't lose any sleep over it. But trying to understand God and perhaps know God, even on hypothetical terms is healthy and a worthy pursuit.
I don't pursue it with other people, 'cause sometiumes it's just better to Let Sleeping Dogs Lie.
And in my view, an omnipotent being,
who's prescence touches us all, and whoose thoughts are indistinguishible from our reality, Who's beauty is reflected in the wonderful cycles of life(No matter or Energy are ever lost...) who doesn't necessarily have a list of rules for me to follow, but rather a pathway of romantic enlightenment
probably wouldn't let me know all about ghosts, wandering souls, or any other form of supernatural existance, 'cause He'd know it'd fuck with my head, and probably a lot of other peoples as well.
Plus to have certain knowledge of one repudiates the prescence of the other, and this seems to be agains the rules
But i think about it a lot, and have respect for all peoples spirituality, unless yer' worshippin' stones, or tree branches or the sun or something.
The Sun I could see. That's cool. Not my thing, but y'know. I won't desecrate your place if it means something to you, or anyone, really, unless yer' trying to drag me into yer' freakisim, then all bet's are off, buddy. And I'll be kickin' yer ass from here until broadway.
So, tonight I went and fucked Shelia again. Went to the grocery store with the remnants of her smeared all over my face and hands. I'm a sick fuck, I know. It was just me and the stockboys late on a Sunday night, and I didn't really talk to them so, its not that bad.
She still needs to trim the kitty, but I've been positioning her legs back furthur, and this helps. If she complains of numbness, I will tell her to shave. Life's a bitch.
It just occurred to me that, once again, my cock has seized control of the reigns of the buisiness.
Fuck!
I shouldn't have put my dick in her, yet again.
I really don't want to do Valentine's Day with this girl, for a number of legitimate reasons, one being that we're still friends, and I want to find the Right Girl. What I want to do, but never will or would, is find a beautiful stainless steel kris knife, and tack a kermit the frog valentine to her door with something trite written on it on it. However, I think this may be misinterpreted.
If she was cool, she would would take it, and whip it out on me later in the night, just to let me know she got it.
"Awright fucker...What the Fuck?"
And we'd meet in a kiss. No knife-play in bed, though. that's bad business, as Jon Bobbit can attest, and You Don't go To Sleep With A Woman Who Is Angry.
Its freakish, I know. But that's an anecdote. Have your next boyfriend follow that one up.
I pulled the stainless steel Kris knife he buried in my door on him, and he was unfazed. He just smirked and stuck his tongue down my throat... I don't know what he did to me in bed, but I haven't been the same since. I cringe at the oddest of moments just thinking about it. But your a real nice guy, Dwayne...
Nooo. I don't push the taboo and limits of good taste in bed anymore. Not really anyway. Not with her. I may start if I get anymore bored with this, yet can't keep my dick from calling the shots.
Anyone care to handicap that bet for me? My dick calling the shots: 3 to 1? 5 to 1? More? None of this trillion to one bullshit.
It all depends on what happens on Valentine's Day. I may have a hook-up with Becky with she and her roomates coming over for dinner, but I may not, as roomie's girl seems to be neuroticising her way out of his life. We'll see.
That'and tuesday night will be interesting. You can smell the desperation on some women.
I just made myself laugh with a sick evil chuckle. Go me. Try to visualize it...the darting eyes, and extreme intoxication, all rationalizations have failed her at this point, and pure bitterness cannot even console her...she'll be picking up the guy who stands there and talks to himself in a crowd of people by the end of the night.
(Sometimes it takes awhile to pinpoint that fucker. It'll look like he's talking to all sorts of people, the guy standing next to him. But really he's talking his jaw off to no one at all.)
And besides, some guys fumble at this point. Maybe the Right Girl was with a fumbler.
Lola can suck my cock. I figured out this multiple ending motherfucker last time, and the fact remains, at the end of it all, the script still sucks.
Tomorrow may be heavy, and I need my rest.
I will try to remember to get Kermit the Frog valentines.
Hey, don't wear black, and watch people stare until you find a plae to hide, along with other members of the hit parade, you swanky motherfucker. You can't hide. You know who you are.
In reality, you are conforming to another way of conformity. I hope you find at least a little romance there, and not necessarily by yourself at home. A little tongue wiggle. Lil' smooch.
Its a good thing.
Yeah.
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