I’ve taken my journaling offline while I sculpt my body in a manner that infects minds without one. I resent having to get back into shape, because that transition has begun to taint me with simple pleasures; yanking on my brain stem like a swollen teat begging to be milked dry. The retardation of sexuality is worming its way into my motivation to succeed (beyond reason); to abuse myself with exotic chemicals and sharpen my whit in front of a mirror (under downwash lighting). Alas my brain alone…is spoiled bait. Visually, I’m a desperate meal. I mean to fix that by caring how I look. The days of filth are over; only the finest spandex will gift wrap my trim physique to taunt females into awkward attempts to seduce me. I fear for my wife…as the attention will be obvious and shake her esteem to seek divorce for some “peculiar” relief. I’ll leave my lion’s den spritzing the neighbourhood with musk so sharp it'll send downwind coywolves into heat.
*Sigh* all I wanted was to profit from my mind, but the sad truth is most people cannot comprehend deep thought. Comprehension is a chore (like balance), unlike appearances where senses gag on stimuli inspired by thought not required (or included) to impress. Clearly…the more fuckable one is, the more likely your MIND will be tolerated. My mind is intolerable, but if you want to bang me, that hurdle is the price of “entry.” Soon I will abandon my intelligence for the boat anchor that it is and endeavour to achieve the holy grail of horny retardation: six pack abs. Yes, revealing these coveted lumps assault women’s esteem so savagely…only the desperation of offering up coitus can quell their thirst for machismo. Now my mind is reduced to a 1950’s telephone operating mechanism yanking and stuffing electrified holes with prongs. Visual vomit is VIP so the key to my heart is my mind; that’s why I strived to be illegible. Hello mam, how YOU doin? My t-shirt will expedite our courtship. Respond with a show of fingers:
1.Dance with me
2.Drink with me
Just point to my chest like a Ouija board and let the music charm us into the closest bathroom stall. Urge urges exploits to be savoured. The toilet is not just a nest of turds, it’s a porcelain chalice accepting donations (like used condoms). Where was I going with this? Awww shit! I forgot to do the dishes before I left the house. My wife is going to kill me. Fuck! See?! The transition has begun to taint me with simple pleasures. As a survivor of psychosis, I’ll tell you this, there is not one but FOUR middle grounds to life. You have a one in four chance of finding a balance, but 50% of that caveat survives at the expense of other people’s sanity. There’s only one true balance to comprehend. This is MY balance. Is my balance a chore to comprehend? If so, I am a desperate meal.