Oh how I
loathe it.
Desire and the
uncomplicated ease of the primal beast residing in my
groin. It is so un-intellectual, so base, so green with envy, so red with passion, anger and
seedy lust.
and it's such
a needy whiny little bitch.
You may hate it. I'm not a woman;
empathy is the peak of my ability to see your trials and tribulations at the hands of a brutal and unfair
patriarchal society. But as a male, and more specifically a male who prides himself on first being a
human and even a bit of an
intellectual, I hate it more than you ever could. It is my addiction and
my fucking crutch. The world may be persecuted by it but I live with it inside me. It sleeps next to me at night polluting my dreams. It walks with me to work, and it invades my nodes while I am unwary.
It makes me want to fight, to scream and to fuck.
It's sort of like being born a horny crack baby.
I don't want it in me anymore. This is its official eviction notice. Screw it.
Mother nature and her cronies can
go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut; I, for one, am through being
the god damn evolutionary test rat for
God,
Darwin,
Xemu or whoever is running this damn game.
I demand absolution for my crimes.
Just a few days ago, a friend of mine, who is normally very calm and collected about women and anger and passion and all that
rot, was stopped mid sentence by a very attractive girl. All she had to do was walk by and he was jolted into a
coma like silence with his eyes glazed over. I could see it; I could see exactly what was going on with my
friend. All he wanted to do was converse and
joke with his friends over
iced coffee and out of nowhere, blam-o, he gets hit; run over by a tall, sculpted, coy looking
vision. He stood about as much of a chance as an opossum has against a
Mack truck.
You could almost feel the need radiating off him. One minute he is telling
a witty story, the next he (
Mr. Cool-and-collected mind you) is gaping in stunned silence.
But wait, it gets even worse.
See, living with this beast is one thing. You see
that pretty girl and all you can do is stare. You can't play it cool any more than a drunk can stop staggering. But here it is, the modern world, you are not allowed to stare. You are most
certainly not allowed to touch.
You, my friend, are fucked. There is no dance, no
mating call, no
right way to approach this woman. You can try, and in all probability be
shot down and have your exploits retold in an angry tirade later to her
girlfriends. Tough luck pal, there is no support group and
no one gives a shit.
Here comes the fun part.
Since the 80's and 90's, not only does the world not care about your unwarranted and almost
mysteriously random desires, they have deemed it illegal.
BzZzZt.
Gong. Can't feel that way, have to be the
sensitive male.
I want to be the goddamn sensitive male,
someone give me a fucking hand here. Please, take away this
magnetic and unrational pull; take away that weird and foreign desire to hit people. Take away the involuntary
gawking and sexual desires that make me want to tear out my hair.
It's like a little war going on between my
head and my balls. I hope I win.