The Waters In Which We Swim


You’re all freaks.  You.  The people who write blogs that I enjoy.  The spirited wordsmiths whose amusing polemics break up the monotony of my day and prevent me from thinking about those things I have chosen to forget.

When I begin to enjoy the honesty and rawness of your blog, you jump out with, I’m a heroin addict!  I’ve never had sex!  I have Elephantiasis!  I was brutally raped by my auntie throughout my childhood!  Or something like that.  Which makes me think, what am I doing here, lurking among the bio-luminescent creatures of the deep?

I don’t belong here.  I’m normal.  Let me tell you how normal I am, you fucking freaks.  I’ve had relationships.  One lasted three years.  You neuro-atypicals probably haven’t managed to keep a dog that long.  I have a job.  A real job.  Monday to Friday, nine to five.  I have to get up early and shave and shower and eat breakfast and have coffee and leave the house every morning because I’m a normal person who works.  I worry about whether I’ve had a shit or not.  Try to remember the last time – was it yesterday, or the day before?  No snoozing until two p.m. and then a quiet afternoon of imbibing ethanol and amputee porn for me.

And I eat vegetables.  I bet you don’t eat vegetables.  You wouldn’t know what to do with a vegetable, would you.  Probably misuse it and end up poking your eye out.  Not to mention fruit.  Every heard of fruit?  You circus performers live on coffee and cigarettes.  Protein powder.  Instant ramen that you bought with the proceeds of a dirty deed.  Best-before date is August 2011 but you eat them anyway because you’re just so fucking authentic.  Stomach cramps and diarrhea are worth it for honest writing.  That’s how Kerouac did it, or so you keep telling us.

I have normal sex.  With women.  Just one at a time (on any given occasion).  Nice and vanilla.  Just the usual three positions plus the odd finger up the bum.  It’s a little boring, actually.  I wish women were a little more ‘carnivorous’, as the Japanese put it.  I’ve met very few women who were actually good at sex.  Mostly they are passive, without any sexual personality of their own, allowing the man to shape them.  I fantasize about a woman with her own, intense desires.  I hardly care what they are.  So long as they’re weird.  And degrading.  Oh fuck, I am so bored.

And yeah, you’re all on drugs.  I wish I was.  My only addiction is coffee.  I really want to try cocaine.  Give me a massive boost of confidence to fill the gaping hole where my spirit and tribal loyalty should be.  Heroin.  I’d love to sink into blissful oblivion.  Magnificent.  I’d rather do these things than live a long and dull life.  Why don’t I.

I’m sick of eating fruit and vegetables.  I’ve been getting slack lately.  Who gives a fuck.  I’m going to die of cancer or a heart attack anyway.  I just want to eat some quick, instant crap that will keep me going while I write.  Something easy to wash down the drugs.

I’ve started to avoid relationships.  I hate relationships.  Relationships are for fags.  Girls only expect a relationship if they know you’re weak.  Know that they can insist on getting something from you.  Time, attention.  Because the sex alone isn’t enough.  Because you aren’t good enough.  Better men get it for free.  Better men fly in and fly out.  They are never expected to return messages or watch a DVD together.  Now when I have a ‘relationship’ it is a fiction.  Any time we meet might be the last.  Either of us might end things, without a word, at any time.

No one means anything to me.  Love?  I’m not a teenager any more.  I just want to empty my lustful rage in someone’s body and then return to my solitude.  I’ll get a sexbot once they’re capable of suffering.

I’m normal.  I want to quit everything and live off my savings in rural Colombia.  Fuck nineteen year olds until one of their fathers shoots me or my liver fails.  Or until I get a tropical parasite that causes Elephantiasis.  Get cremated by the local government because my savings are less than three hundred dollars.  The only person attending my funeral is the local priest who does the Catholic rites in two minutes flat, all the while thinking of getting back to his girlfriend and seeing how many fingers he can stick up her arse.  His record is three.



Further reading: A Tale Of Two Girls

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  1. Pingback: The Waters In Which We Swim – fuckedupsite
  2. My confession · February 2, 2016

    this is great


  3. Pingback: Breaking up is easy to do | SovietMen

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