How much gin does will take to make my soul come back? I think it might be four shots, five at the outside. Depends how quickly I drink. Need to reach that sweet spot between feeling drunk but still depressed and the moment when I begin to vomit.
I’ve been a couple of weeks without sex, mostly due to lack of effort on my part, and that old incel rage is coming back again. It shouldn’t take effort. There should just be a button. Whoever programmed this universe is a cunt. Probably laughing at us. If there’s a way out of our universe to his, he’s fucked.
Gin is horrible but it’s too hot for whisky. And my whisky is too good for ice. And I am too good for cheap whisky. I deserve to win the lottery. I’d set aside an annual budget of $12,000 for whores. Then I’d never need to speak to another woman again. Never get a message from my ex who’d said she wanted a break, now saying ‘can’t we just talk?’ Never have to consider calling up my before ex who’s selfless in bed and focuses on pleasing me because she’s thirty-five and has cats and just craves my company, or anybody’s company. Never need to look at my middle aged clients and think, would I? Never wonder if the only Tinder girl who likes me is actually a bloke, and then decide to take the risk and if she is I’ll let it suck my cock anyway because that’s about where I am right now. Never arrive on the other side of town for a first date with some other girl and she messages me right on time at 8pm saying she can’t come. Ask her why she didn’t tell me earlier and receive her absurd excuse. She was bitten by an insect. Try to think of a cutting insult that won’t be so harsh that it’ll get me in trouble if she forwards it to my employer. I want to say, ‘your mouth is weird anyway’. I want to say, ‘you will die old and lonely and your cute little dog that you treat like the child you never had will eat your face’. Instead I try to say ‘you are not a very nice person’ but after I send it I notice that there’s a typo and it’s turned into gibberish.
Why don’t we have space travel yet. Why haven’t we found sexy aliens or developed VR that impresses normal people. Why aren’t I a Russian landlord from 1823. Why is no one answering my questions.
The Tinder girl who I think is a bloke didn’t message back to confirm plans. I put on a load of washing and got too drunk to drive then she messaged back. I realized I had no clean underwear, either. No good ones. Shall I put on some ridiculous grandpa pants with yellow stains just off-centre of the urethra or pull a smelly pair of boxers out of the wash? Too late, they’re all wet. I tried to reschedule. She forgets about me and chooses one of the three dozen other cocks blowing up her phone. I suddenly become convinced she was born female and that she’s just a little on the athletic side. Goddamn. Why can’t I even do the sour grapes maneuver like everybody else? I’m like the fox that looks up and says, ‘Aw, I bet they were the sweetest grapes every grown under the sun and everybody else gets to enjoy them except me.’ And then tries to piss on them but succeeds only in splashing his own eyes.
Buddha had a solution to all of this. This is an actual quote from Buddha:
Oi Niko, you stupid piece of shit. Take a look at yourself. Earlier tonight all you could think about was how hungry you were. Then you finally had a chance to go eat and then were you happy? Oh no, then you had to whinge and complain about how horny you were. And when you had three or four girls on the books a while back, were you happy? No, you wanted younger, hotter girls with bigger tits and you wanted them to throw themselves at you instead of having to painstakingly hunt and manage them. Are you seeing a pattern here, you little maniac? Anything jump out at you?
And don’t give me that crap about how you can’t live any other way. You weren’t horny at all when you were hungry. You wouldn’t have felt hungry if you’d been thirsty. And you wouldn’t have been thirsty if some Indian were holding a pillow over your face.
Unhappiness is the gap between your desires and what you actually have. You can never close this gap because the getting of things will increase your desires. This is called the hedonic treadmill. The path to enlightenment is to instead reduce your desires.
I know, Buddha, I know. But it feels so good to have desires when I can satisfy them. Like when you do a really big poo after feeling uncomfortable all day. You swagger out of the toilet like Gilgamesh. And without desire, what would I do? The primary problem with my life at the moment is my lack of desire. I don’t want any higher thing quite enough to do the work to achieve it. And you know what, fuck happiness. If I were happy I wouldn’t write anything. I’d be out there skipping through fields of tulips instead. Misery is my enriched uranium.
I’m sobering up. I’ve got to put the washing out. And I remembered there’s a book I want to finish reading tonight. I’ll be rooting a new girl in no time, always do, even though I always feel like I’ll never shag again. I just feel personally insulted that I need to go out and seduce vaginas as though they’re attached to human beings. Could be worse – imagine if God had stuck them on the snouts of hyenas that lived on the moon. Crikey.
Further reading: Strength and Weakness