Subtitle : A Frank and Ernest And Jo-Jo the Dog Boy Discussion Of One Big Fat Hairy Dudes’s Many Perversions and Proclivities

(WARNING : The following may contain traces (or great heaping wads) of biology, proctology, urology, scatology, sexology, and pretty much every other really filthy -ology you can think of…. and so many more.

Oh, and I will be talking about my needs as a horny gay man. So if that kind of thing is your Kryptonite, feel free to fly home to Lois Lane with my blessing. )

In case the all caps screaming and multifaceted caveats above don’t provide enough warning, this is the blog entry where I talk about my sexuality in detail, with neither shame nor inhibition. This will most definitely include discussion of the Holy Trinity of the gay man’s sex life – my mouth, my cock, and my asshole – and so if that is all A Bit Too Much (or WAY WAY TOO MUCH for you, feel free to skip this one.

Enough warning. Let’s get down to it, and to do that, we will start at the root (so to speak) of the issue :

I am so fucking horny it’s driving me insane.

Seriously. It’s becoming a major distraction. Every inch of me craves male attention.

My mouth drools at the thought of having a nice hot hard cock to suck. I am drooling right now as I write this, in fact. I long to wrap my lips around a tasty juicy cock and suck it like it was my only source of oxygen.

Aside : Isn’t it amazing how oral sex can be as pleasurable (or even more pleasurable) for the person performing it as it is for the person receiving it? Two people can be perfectly happy getting what they want out of the encounter with nobody having to make any sort of sacrifice or be the ‘loser’ in the situation.

That kind of cosmic harmony is one of the most wonderful things about the multi-splendored thing that is human sexuality.

And to think, people ruin that with a lot of stupid rules and shame.

Anyhow, back to the plot. Where was I? Oh right, with a mad craving for cock.

But that’s not all my mouth wants because it also craves butt. Eating butt is one of my favorite things to do. If I see a really sexy butt, my first instinct is to dive in with my tongue out and hands ready to spread cheeks.

So yes. I greatly enjoying licking people’s buttholes. You know, the place where the poop comes out. I know that is super gross to a lot of people. All I can say is, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it  Even if you never take that route yourself, try letting someone else doing it for you.

Trust me, you will love it, and learn to appreciate those of us who do it.

And yes, slurping on people’s anuses does come with the risk of encountering someone who is not one hundred percent clean back there.

Personally, I don’t mind. Just adds to the flavour to me, as long as it is in small amounts. Adds to the thrill of the taboo too.

It’s certainly not going to slow down my eternal hunger for butt.

My cock has cravings too. Like any penis. it is really just looking for a friendly orifice willing to give it shelter in return for some deep down dirty dicking.

So I am not a total bottom. Far from it. I love to hump. And be humped. That goes both ways just like oral sex thing. And I think one of the most exciting things about being a gay man is having that flexibility of roles.

And of course, I would never turn down a good blowjob. Or even a fairly bad one. Even a highly inexpert blowjob feels very nice.

Of course, ideally, we’d 69, so I could have both kinds of fun.

It’s too bad that is extremely impossible to do the same thing with the butt fucking. Or rather, it’s impossible with only two people.

Get a third dude involved and you can takes turns being Lucky Pierre (aka the one in the middle who gets to fuck one guy while getting fucked by another. )

My God, that sounds good to my greedy horny ass.

And speaking of my ass, it, too, has its cravings. Well,. craving, really… it wants to be stuffed with hot hard cock too, and fucked till I just can’t take it any more.

Judging by how horny I feel right now and how hungry my back door feels, that could take a lot of high quality dicking. I might need to establish a rota.

I suppose that my butthole also craves a licking, but only if a dicking isn’t available. Getting your ass eaten can be heavenly but it doesn’t  that deep down bitch itch that a gay man in heat like me needs scratched.

The reason for my feeling randier than an old maid at a strip club is that I just can’t reach orgasm from masturbation lately.

It is; primarily. Paxil’s fault. Something about its ability to tamp down emotional responses in order to make my anxiety manageable also interferes with the pathways that trigger orgasm, and that puts me in quite the pickle.

Peter Piper picked a peck of prickled peckers…

Anyhow. The cycle is simple. I get horny. I masturbate. I fail to get to the Happy Squirting Time. This leaves me unsatisfied and my background level of horniness increases. That leads to more masturbation, and more dissatisfaction, and so forth and so on till I get where I am right now, where I am about to go mad.

The normal solution would be to go seek a playmate (or ten), and that’s where I hit the brick wall because that is a very hard thing for someone with my kinds of crippling social issues to do.

At one point, I was quite closing to doing so, but then the entire classifieds and/or personals sections of every Craigslist in the world got shut down and vanished overnight. I have no idea why.

And with the Craigslist personals went all the psychological progress I had made via talking with various potential fuckbuddies online.

It’s sad that it works that way, but it does.

And I have no idea where to go now. The problem is that there are zillions of websites out there that might hook me up, so how do I choose?

And it’s virtually guaranteed that no other site will have the reach, scope, and localization that Craigslight had.

And I am sure as hell not well enough to go to a gay nightclub and try to pick someone up or get picked up.

I could try a gay bathhouse like the one I tried when I was at VFS. But not that one…it was too cramped for my claustrophobia and too crude and tasteless for my fussy faggy aesthetic and/or erotic sensibilities.

I mean, bare concrete, terrible linoleum, and constant dull as fuck techno music?

Please. I want comfort, damit it. And tastefulness.

So it would be some other place. But I would have to have a sense of how crowded it gets because, once again, claustrophobia.

Damn you, claustrophobia! You’re always fucking up my sex life.

Anyhow, I guess that’s my State of the Union address for my so-called sex life. That is where I stand, gland in hand, looking for a man.

There is a lot more I could talk about, but it is all stuff that would have negative consequences in RL, so I can’t talk about it here.

So instead, I bid you adieu.

I will talk to you nice peoiple again tomorrow.

Or, put another way :

Now available on Cafe Press!

I am totally going to order that from myself.

It’s a thought that has been on my mind a lot lately. Here I am, all brilliant and talened and shit, and yet I rot near the bottom of the financial food chain because I have a head full of bad wiring that makes it so hard for me to actually do things.

In fact, get this – lately, I suddenly remember that I am incredibly intelligent and a very gifted, unique, and powerful writer as well as a charismatic and likeable guy with a genuine and sweet personality – and my immediate reaction was irritation.

“Oh right, I have many amazing gifts that most people would give their left gamete to have just waiting for me to use them…. what a pain in the ass. ”

That’s how it goes if you have a trulky degenerate soul, folks. When I think about my many gifts, I am not filled with the joy of a recent lottery winner, nor do I feel the wonder and delight of a child looking at all the enormous presents with his name on them under the tree on Xmas morning.

Nope. It’s more like :

Me (Grumpy Cat voice) : Oh right. I guess that means we’re supposed to DO stuff. What a freaking drag.

That’s why I forgot my gifts so often. It’s so much easier to imagine I am pathetic and worthless and have nothing to offer society but disgust and dependence.

Not better. Just easier.

This is, of course. madness. In this case, madness as defined as the repeated denial of what is incontroversially true because it is psychologically inconvenient.

Something something Fox News.

It’s especially bad because the truths being denied are ones that 99 percent of humanity would consider to be extremely positive. Superficially, it would seem like being in denial about winning the lottery or landing a date with a super fuckable celebrity.

Reminder : I am going to write in detail about my sexuality soon. You’ve been warned.

And I mean GRAPHIC detail. With illustrations. And diagrams.

Anyhow. Denying my gifts, weird to most people, etc. But to me it makes a disturbing kind of sense because my depression makes me so damned resistant to action of any kind that I even resist the light tug towards productivity that acknowleding my substantial gifts brings.

And gives me such a feeling of futility. I feel like I am a high performance sports car with a dead battery. A powerful machine that isn’t plugged in. A powerful supercomputer that could solve humanity’s problems only nobody remembers the password.

A winning lottery ticket stuck behind the winner’s chest of drawers, never to be found.

I better stop now before I go off on another imagistic tangent.

It’s all very tragic, when you think of it. But I try not to think about it because it only makes me anxious and depressed.

It would be one thing if I felt like there was a way out of the trap. And there is, but it’s very indirect and unsatisfying. It involves the usual tedious incremental improvement in my mental health that going to therapy and writing this blog brings me, and I have to keep hacking away at that based on faith that I am, indeed, getting somewhere, and one day will break through into the light of the sunlit lands beyond my prison cell.

And in truth, progress is as inevitable as it is unsatisfying.

It’s my id we are talking about here and it does not like to wait. It wants to do things in big pushes and overwhelming attacks, not through patience and persistence. It has been violently suppressed for a really long time and wants to bust out and explode into the night sky with glory and light like a roman candle made of awesomeness.

But it can’t. Not yet. Because my internal structures are far too feeble to support that. It’d be like trying to launch a rocket made of used chewing gum and taffeta.

The power is there – in spades. The payload is spectacular as fuck. The effect could be downright miraculous to behond.

But I am too damned weak inside to pull it off.

Let’s talk about something else now.

Namely, how pissed off I am at DropBox. Here’s the story :

I have been communicating with the nice lady who pays me to write stories in text chat format. She says she would love to buy more work from me. She told me to go look in the DropBox folder for the project for some documents about a new format and how to submit work and so forth and so on.

Great! I was looking forward to this. I want to get my writing game on.

So I click the link and basically this is what happens.

DropBox : We’re sorry, you can’t add that folder because you’re out of space.  You will have to pick a plan and pay for more space.
Me : Nonsense. I will just go delete a bunch of stuff to make room.
DropBox : Look at all these lovely plans you can buy.
Me : Just let me get at my files so I can make room!
DropBox : No files. PLANS.
Me : So basically, you are holding my files hostage for ransom.
DropBox : Plans. PLANS. PLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANS.
Me : Well isn’t that fucking lovely.

So I can’t get to this very important folder because DropBox are being skeezy dicks and extorting money from people at virtual gunpoint.

It’s not all that much money. $12/month or so. But at least for now,l I am too pissed off about DropBox’s dirty tricks to give them any god damned money.

Plus they are claiming I have 9 gigs of files on there and there is no way that can be true. I have never put anything bigger than a meg or two in my DropBox.

So they are spicing up their exortion with lies.

Why is everything so much more complicated than it needs to be?

And with that happy thought, I’mma nap nao.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

WARNING : This song is fairly dickish. I used to find it hilarious, which is a little disturbing. But then, as we are about to discuss, I am not quite the happy bouncy saint that I pretend to me.

Really feeling my angry and antisocial side lately. Let’s call it The Ogre. It’s the side of me that wants to tell the whole world to fuck off and leave me alone. It’s the side of me that resents ever having to leave my cozy little tomb here to go out and deal with the world. It’s the side of me that, if it had its way, I wouldn’t even watch the Daily Show and Colbert with Joe and Julian.

I would stay in my room, sitting here at this computer, nearly all the time. And it would not be long before I was another lunatic neckbeard on the Internet, railing against whoever I have chosen to blame my pain on when the real reason I am miserable is that I have cut myself off from humanity.

It could happen.

I think this Ogre of mine is particularly active these days – active enough that I thought it was time I pushed it into the light and examined it – because it actually did get its way for a while due to my grappling with pneumonoia.

Not only did that get me five “glorious” days of almost no need to socialize, afterwards my usual social schedule was a lot lighter due to entirely rational fears about my being contagious. So when I did go out and socialize, it was to the neutral territory of some dining establishment, then back home. Easy peasy.

So this unspeakably ugly Ogre of mine got pretty fucking comfortable. It gloried in the vast reduction in social stressors in my life and reveled in the short term benefits of less strain, toil, and anxiety making life a lot “easier”.

Not better. Just easier.

So  now that I am returning to my previous levels of socialization, my Ogre is pissed off solid, and for once, it is speaking up and making its desires known.

Usually. it just lurks in the background as inchoate anger lacking a real focus and often making me not angry but anxious.

Then again. lately it has at least been noticeably peaking once a month or so. That’s when I sit down to blog and get all ranty and growly and nihilistic.

How very like an Ogre that is. Just call me Gay Shrek.

Well this time, I am going to get at least somewhat closer to the root of the problem instead of merely venting.

Don’t get me wrong… venting is awesome and I always end up feeling a whole lot better afterwards. It’s like a much needed expectoration.

Don’t worry, that’s as gross as my metaphors for catharsis will get tonight.

I am a big time proponent of catharsis. A lot of people are walking around with problems they think are insurmountable but which could actually be solved by having a good long cry or telling the right person to go fuck themselves.

I’m just sayin’.

Oh shit, I was supposed to finish that ghost thing today. Dammit. Well if I haven’t done it by Saturday afternoon, I will do it then, I promise.

Anyhow, it’s not hard to see the root cause of my attacks of Ogre-ness as being my lack of sufficient emotional outlet. That’s why the anger and frustration builds up inside me and makes a lot of things more painful than they need to be.

There is a sexual component related to my troubles “finishing” when masturbating as well. That would piss off any man.

Even a freak like me.

So I need better emotional and/or sexual outlets. We will leave the sexual part aside for now due to not wanting to get into the whole thing while I am trying to talk about something entirely different.

But fair warning, there will be a very explicit blog entry about my sexuality very soon.

Trigger warnings will be plentiful and detailed, however.

Back to emotional outlets. Right now, this blog is more or less it. Well, it, and therapy. Despite my genius I have no knack for expressing my emotions, especially in realtime, as their stimuli are happening.

In fact, I am so out of touch with my real, active, true emotions that often I can’t even tell the difference between emotions related to what is happening to me and latent emotions that have merely been triggered by what is happening to me.

Subjectively speaking, it’s all the same to me.

Presumably, it would be a lot easier if I didn’t have such a huge emotional backlog. Or at least if I was more consciously aware of it. As is, all those latent emotions are on my “treat as if not present” list of things I pretend are not there so I can get on with my day and my life.

As coping mechanisms, it is terrible. It vritually guarantees that I will be constantly tripping over things I have blinded myself to, things outside the tight narrow focus of my laser sharp intellect.

Those two things are definitely related – the tightly focused laser beam brain and the tuning out of everything that doesn’t fit in it. I have spoken here before about how us brainy types have this powerful emotional suppression center in our brains.

And that is great for focusing the intellect on the sorts of abstract reasoning at which we brainy types excel.

But it’s lousy for our psychological health because, at least with some of us,.it gives us the ability to suppress any emotion we don’t like and hence we end up with a whole lot of emotions we never dealt with at all, just shoved into a box and forgot about.

And man are there a lot of boxes around here. Can’t move an inch without tripping over one. But it’s fine. This is normal.

At least, it is for me.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

(TRIGGER WARNING : Non-explicit talk about peeing. )

I cannot believe how much I have urinated in the last 19 hours or so.

It’s insane. I estimated that I have needed to pee at least eight times in that amount of time and every single time, my bladder has been painfully full and I have had to spend a lot more time “in the position” than is usual for me.

And as usual when I hit a patch like this, the burning question on my mind is : where the heck have I been keeping all this aqua vitae? How the heck was it stored?

Because I am telling you, output has vastly outpaced input. I am used to urinating relatively frequently due to my aggressive approach to remaining hydrated. I usually pee three or four times a day, and that matches up nicely with how much I drink.

But now I have doubled that while deliberately restricting my fluid intake out of worries about some kind of nightmare overflow situation, and so I have to wonder where the heck all this moisture has been hiding.

I have several entertaining entirely unscientific theories, of course. Like I am actual a distant relatively to some might rain god, and normally this would be the time when I would be making it rain in some drought stricken area but I was never given the proper instructions and training, so it now rains internally from time to time.

Talk about a golden shower! *canned laughter*

Or maybe I am unwittingly host to some moisture seeking aliens from a galatic society where water is the most precious thing there is, like in the movie Ice Pirates, and all the time at the bowl today has actually been their way of sending their precious bounty back to the mother planet somehow.

Talk about liquid gold! *canned laughter*

Or maybe it’s urea (aka uric acid) that they are really after because to them, it is both a potent fertilizer and a powerful hallucinogenic narcotic, and somewhere some alien equivalent of a bored rich kid is getting high as fuck on my humble output.

Talk about something else! *canned laughter*

Okay, okay. This is clearly going in a weird direction and I am pretty sure the world can live without whatever sick scenario I would come up with next.

Scientifically speaking, the most plausible explanation is that it has something to do with my electrolyte balance. The actual answer to “where did it all come from?” is that it came from the cells of my body, and in order for our cells to retain water, it has to also retain our primary electrolyte, salt.

The way our cells do the trick with the salt and the water is fascinating, but I won’t waste time explaining it tonight.

The gist is that if something triggers a loss of salt in my body, it would naturally also lead to a loss of the fluid being retained in my cells with the help of said salt.

Of course, that doesn’t really explain the phenomenon, because what the ever lovin heck caused the loss of salt?

But it does, at least. explain where all the fluid came from. It was locked away in my cells until something opened the dang floodgates.

The other thing I have been doing today is sleeping. I am definitely going through one of my sleepy periods. I have spent more time asleep than awake in those fateful 19 hours.

And it has been the deep, heavy sleep that always leaves me kind of messed up and incoherent when I wake up.

So the plot summary of my day would be “Michael pees groggily a lot. ”

I would like to imagine that the peeing and the sleeping are somehow related, if only for post hoc ergo propter hoc reasons.

But I am uncharacteristically sans theory as to how the two phenomenon could be related. The best I can come up with is a vague guess that essentially boils down to “something something….. hormones?”.

But clearly my body has some serious work to do. Some thing or things has become severely unbalanced and my body is determined to return to equilibrium no matter what it takes to do so.

I approve of this. Lord knows, important decisions like this can’t be left to my overwrought and undertaught conscious mind. We all know that as brilliant as my mind is, it is terrible at looking after its body, and is definitely not to be trusted to listen to what the body says from way up on its cloud of abstract reasoning and childish pursuits.

So I am all for my body taking the reins of power when it needs to do so. Go ahead, do what it takes to be healthy. Ignore my silly ass id-less out of touch with physical reality conscious mind, it doesn’t know what the fuck it is doing.

Wouldn’t it be great if doing the healthy things actually felt (or tasted, or sounded, or whatever) better than the unhealthy things?

We would all be so healthy all the time!

In fact, a lot of my problems boil down to my conscious mind micromanaging natural functions that work just fine on their own.

That’s what all that “ignoring my instincts” is about. I am so good at simply tuning out all the messages from my body so that I can tune in to the abstract rational part of my mind where I prefer to live that I feel like my body and I are fond but distant relatives who swear they should be in contact way more but never go through with it.

Of course, that’s true in real life too. I am one poor correspondent.

But I refuse to take all the guilt for that. My relatives are free to contact me any time they like, and I am always thrilled when they do.

It’s just very hard to convince myself that they actually want to hear from me. And that makes it very hard to talk myself into spontaneously reaching out to them.

I always feel like I will just be an unwanted intrustion into their lives.

And the bitter truth is that they leave it up to me to contact them because most of the time they forget all about me, so it’s up to me to remind them I exist.

I have serious psychological issues that keep me from reaching out to them.

What’s their excuse?

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Feeling ugly today. But in a fun way. Like I am a silly ol troll or ogre from a children’s story, one who is ugly in a cute way and not scary at all.

Of course, when I write children’s stories, they feature hardcore nudity.

Why? Because I’m a pervert, duh!

Been contemplating my relationship with order, or lack thereof. I know for sure that, deep down. part of me craves a neater, better organized, more rational and efficient life, that represents that side of my mind better and that pleases me to behold.

The problem is that there is a much bigger part of me that absolutely loathes that idea and rises up to brutally demolish any and all plans in that direction before I can even fully form the intention to clean up around here.

There is something deep and dark inside me that hides in all the chaos and the clutter and the filth, and it (in other words, me) fears exposure like Dracula fears sunlight.

And I could not tell you what this dark thing is. I suppose if I could, that would be a form of exposure via the spotlight of consciousness. All I can tell you is that there is a great deal of very deep and potent shame attached. The kind of shame that tends to be attached to matters concerned with the elimination of waste.

You know. Potty stuff.

So that’s all part of the mix. Part of me is terrified – deep down terrified – of what I have been holding in coming out and views that possibly as, like I said yesterday, the Worst Thing That Could Happen.

But why? What could be so bad? Whatever it is, I am probably far better off without it and the only way to get rid of it would be to let it out, so why not?

What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like we are dealing with a physical toxin or even actual bodily waste here. This is purely psychological. If whatever it is comes out, it will be in the form of emotions and possibly words.

So what’s the big deal?

It must all tie back to when I was raped at the age of 4. A lot of us survivors of child sexual abuse carry a deep dark sense of shame, as if the abuse made us into something dirty and disgusting and shameful.

In fact, that’s true of all rape survivors, regardlessof age. And it’s so unfair. We didn’t do anything wrong. We’re the victims here, not the perpetrators. They are the ones who did something shameful and horrible and disgusting. They should be the ones who feel dirty and spoiled, not us.

And yet here we are. We, the innocent victims, literally feel like shit, and the rapists probably went on with their lives never even thinking about it again.

My rapist, the man who shattered my life forever, probably went back home to his family that day feeling great. He had gotten his dark urges out without violating his own kids, and he had that warm happy feeling one gets after taking a really good shit.

There’s that Freudian butt stuff again.

In fact, I bet he considered that to be one of the best days of his life.

It was, obviously, the absolute worst in mine. Bar none.

But even recognizing the unfairness of my feelings of being a walking talking turd sandwich that is so disgusting and horrible that nobody could ever love him does not make those feelings go away.

At best, it helps me handle them a bit better.

No, I think there is no linear, rational way to actually rid myself of these feelings of filthiness and contamination. I think whatever the successful method is, it will involve the sort of transcendant mystical thinking which operates purely on emotion with which I am almost totally unfamiliar.

I am a victim of my own rationality on many, many levels.

That’s one of them.

I mean, I grasp the theory of it. That kind of thinking (or rather, feeling) involves following the emotional connections of the mind without the limiting factor of logic, reason, or any need to make literal rational sense of it all.

It’s the sort of thing people experience under the influence of powerful hallucinogens. In those situations, those inner connections take over the person’s entire consciousness.

I have never had that happen (while awake, anyway) but I feel like I reach something like that mode when I am writing my thoughts down as they come. It’s especially potent when, like in last year’s book, I am translating those thoughts and feelings into the potent imagery of fictional prose as I go.

By doing so, I begin to approach that mystic state where inner reality is projected into the consciousness in a way that feels nearly real.

But I wish I were even braver. I greatly admire the poets and writers who are willing to fully embrace this dream logic state of mind and write their words without thought as to whether anyone will understand them or even care about them.

They are the ones who create truly powerful art that comes from those deep dark recesses of the soul. Their imagery is powerful precisely because it comes unfiltered from the part of the mind that generates dreams when we are asleep.

I think I have gotten close to that in my writing a few times, but not as close as I wouild like. I think it would be very interesting, not to mention highly therapeutic, for me to try to write like that, without worrying about whether my audience will understand it or like it and concentrating entirely on expressing what needs to be expressed in the most vivid and true way that I can.

But I am scared. Leaving the cold comfort zone of my rational linear mindset is very difficult for me. It has been both my weapon and my shelter against the darkness of the world for as long as I can remember, and I am scared that if I leave it in order to explore the dark and tangled woods of my deep emotional life, I will never find my way back.

Quite probably not a rational fear, but still, it remains.

So I dunno. Maybe one day you will come to this blog to find that the latest entry is my doing my level best to write down every thought as it comes to me, or at the very least to follow those emotional pathways wherever they want to take me.

If so, sorry in advance if it makes little sense to you.

But it might just do me a world of good.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Normally, by way of explanation, I would link the video that today’s blog title came from here. It’s usually just whatever song is stuck in my head when I sit down to blog. Sometimes, it relates to what I was planning on talking about, but most of the time it does not. It’s just whatever random bit of music is looping in my brain.

To be honest, a lot of the time I have no idea what I am going to talk about until I actually start writing, if then. Sometimes I don’t have a clue what I am going to write until I have written it.

Writing can be quite fun that way. It can be a voyage of self-discovery, where you find out what you think about something by writing about it. Far too many times, I have written a long bit about something or other in this space then sat back and said ‘Wow, I had no idea I felt that strongly about that thing. ‘

It’s a little crazy, but it’s a lot of fun.

There is something qualitatively different about writing down my thoughts as opposed to just thinking about stuff. It’s like each thought is at the top of a tall stack of thoughts, and writing one thought down causes the next to pop up into my consciousness.

It’s like Kleenex!

It’s curious how the act of writing the thought down makes all the difference. It’s like once it is written down, my brain recognizes that it doesn’t have to hold on to that thought any more because it’s now stored offsite, so to speak.

And that’s a powerful thing. Emotions are information, as I have said before. Ditto for our thoughts and opinions and so on. They remain in our minds until they are transmitted. Only when out cognitive hardware gets the “message received” signal can it let the emotion (or whatever) go and give you back the mental resources that said information was taking up.

I am pretty sure that the pleasure of unburdening yourself is largely a feeling akin to how it feels good to put a heavy burden down in the physical sense. It’s a combination of relief and release.

I feel like I have been trying to explain that to people for my entire life. But people get locked into the emotional-retentive cycle where the most important thing in the world is keeping the emotions in and from that point of view, letting them out in any form, no matter how therapeutic, is worse than madness. Worse than evil, even.

It’s The Worst Thing Possible, more or less.

And I know this because I am in that pickle myself. My whole mind is structured around this inane and damaging retention routine. I have a very deep (and very Freudian) terror of the things I am keeping in getting out.

And it’s all so pointless. I am a big believer in “better out than in” and that is especially true for emotions. People are way better off when they have enough emotional release to keep up with demand in their lives.

In fact, that might be the dividing line between the happy and the depressed right there. Happy people have enough release to keep the emotions from building up and taking up mental resources and making the mind too slow to balance its mood properly.

It’s like us depressed types are you elderly relative’s computer with all the toolbars and extensions and viruses that makes it run reeeeeealy slow.

In this metaphor, ECT (electro-convulsive therapy) works as a temporary fix for depression because it reboots the brain and, for a while at least, your mind is operating without all that extra junk loaded.

Sadly, more often than not, the patient’s brain gets really good at loading all that crap all over again really fast, so ECT does not always work in the long term.

Anyhow. Back to…. um…. whatever it was I was talking about!

Writing. Right. It is this release of thoughts and/or emotions and/or whatever that has made me ‘addicted” to blogging daily. I “need’ to blog because it is only via blogging that I can clear some space in my mind away from all the chatter of all those unexpressed thoughts all screaming for attention all at once.

In other writing news, I am a bit annoyed with myself for completely forgetting about NaNoWriMo (the National Novel Writing Month) this year. It happens every November and I have used it as a motivator for me to write a novel five or six times now.

But I totally blanked on it this year. Did not remember it until someone mentioned it on Facebook today. Even if I started tomorrow, I would have missed three full writing days, and so it would be a bit of a stretch to start now.

More importantly. I have absolutely no ideas about the project. Nothing. In previous years, I at least had some notion of what I wanted to write going in. I at least had some kind of starting point and a vague idea of theme.

But because I have given the whole thing zero thought until today. I got nuthin’. So I would be starting totally cold. And that would be a bitch.

Yet I am not giving up on the idea. I am not worried about making wordcount – I am highly prolific when motivated and so I know I can make up for lost time.

Heck, last year I upped it from 1667 words a day to 2000 words a day just to make the math easier to do.

So I know I can catch up. The question is whether I have an idea of what to write that I feel strongly enough about to actually write the damned thing.

There is also freelance work to consider. I was hoping to do more of it.

So I will mull it over. Maybe I will challenge myself to write a standard fiction novel, with no science fiction or fantasy elements at all.

If so…. it will probably get political.

We shall see. For now, I am just another obscure blogger.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

That song has been stuck in my head all day, so I decided to share it with you.

That’s but one of his youth-oriented songs that must be pretty interesting to see him do live these days, seeing as he’s really Vincent Damon Furnier born on February 4th of 1948, which makes him 70 years old this year.

But it doesn’t bother me. I never really felt I was part of the demographic to which said songs were addressed, so the fact that a very old dude is singing them doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

The songs are what is important to me, and they stay the same.

Anyhow, back to Mount Blogistan. My rage continues to fade into the background once more. I am going to let it, it served its purpose. It burned through a lot of the accumulated garbage from my hospital stay and just life in general, and now it can go back to where it came from to wait for another trash run.

I still produce way more emotion than I express. Every day I express my feeling a little better, and I have come a long long way from when I was so alienated from myself that I felt like I didn’t even exist, but I still have a long way to go before output matches input.

And then I can truly get to work on my extensive backlog of underexpressed emotions. I am working on those now as well, of course. Any time I talk about my past, that’s pretty much what I am doing, whether it’s in therapy or in this space. Spelunking in the icy caves of frozen emotion, looking for stuff to thaw out.

There’s a lot of stuff in there. My heart has not been open at all for many years. And as we all know, you’re frozen when your heart’s not open.

There’s some real wisdom in there, Veronica Electronica. Thanks.

In a way, I wish I could just hit the emergency release valve and flush all those unexpressed emotions out of my system for good. It’s not like I want to have to wade through the mires of my unearthly emotional life in search of emotions that are ready to be expressed. I don’t want to face the mile high stack of emotional invoices awaiting me in my psychological “in” tray.  It would be awesome if all of that could just dry up and blow away so I can start over.

An in tray. How outre!

But when I really think about it, that idea is creepy as fuck. It’s creepy the way a lobotomy is creepy, because like it or not, all those unexpressed emotions are a part of me and to flush them out would be to cut off a part of myself just to make life easier.

To hell with that. Part of my self-awakening (as in, awakening to the existence of my self, my inner being. my identity) has been learning to value my selfhood and act to preserve and protect it instead of more or less completely ignore it and its needs.

I suppose there have been times in my life where, in one of my more self-congratulatory moments, that I was selfless. Unhindered by petty ego demands. Able to transcend the grubby little ignoble concerns of others and focus entirely on the truth.

A notion that is, ironically, quite gratifying to the ego of the self I was denying existed.

On a certain extremely abstruse level, that is hilarious.

Now that I have escaped that particularly peculiar and logically ludicrous form of denial, I can see it as part of the life-destroying chill factor that has kept me down and depressed (but remarkably crisp and fresh) for all of my adult life.

In fact, a big part of my journey of discovery lately has been realizing how much damage I did to myself out of the naive arrogance of thinking I knew better than everyone else and that meant that the things others do as part of their psychological development into adults were strictly optional for me, and I could choose to completely disregard them if I didn’t see the point of them in practical terms.

Like I said before, pity those who are smart enough to be that stupid.

I mean, the arrogance of it all. I assumed that if I couldn’t see the point of something, that meant it had no point and I wasn’t interested in it.

As opposed to there being a very good point to whatever it was but it’s a point that only makes sense once you are doing the thing, and there is nobody around articulate enough to just explain that to me so I have no choice but to learn by trying.

But I didn’t do that. Because I thought I knew better. That’s what really bothers me now. I came to broad conclusions without even gathering any evidence first.

That is so blatantly un-empircal!

Then again, what can you expect when a kid with serious emotional issues and way more intelligence than he knows what to do with is left socially isolated and alone to more or less raise himself?

It’s not exactly a recipe for good long term decision making, no matter how bright I was.

And really, all that pooh-pooing of what the other kids did was really just a tin halo stapled onto my crippling burden of anxiety.

Looking back at my childhood, I was scared almost all the time. Bullying will do that to a kid. I dealt with enormous anxiety all the time.

To me, that was normal. That was life as I knew it. So it has taken a long time and quite frankly waaaay more evidence than should have been necessary for me to even realize that what was happening was anxiety and that having so much anxiety all the time is not normal nor is it inescapable.

And I had it at Kwantlen and I had it at VFS too. So this is not ancient history. It’s been my pattern pretty much my whole life. All the time I was in school, especially between classes, I was walking around in a thick haze of anxiety bordering on terror.

Jesus, no wonder I am socially awkward. All that anxiety takes up a lot of mental real estate. Doesn’t exactly leave a lot of room for sophisticated social interactions.

Believe it or not, this is a major breakthrough for me. Finally consciously recognizing that I was having a more or less constant low grade panic attack the whole time I was in Kwantlen and VFS and pretty much every other form of schooling I have every done.

Getting to know one’s emotions is… complicated.

But I have to admit…. it’s also kind of fun.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

But off by how much? And in what way?

Ha ha ha.

Feeling somewhat better-ish today. Still got the simmering cauldron of long denied rage thing going on, but I have had some mellower moments mixed in there too.

Therapy helped. Talked over a bunch of things with Doctor Costin. No particular area of psychological paydirt, but it always feels good just to tell him about my life and how it’s going and how I have been feeling and whatever else that brings up.

Unsurprisingly, I have lost my temper a few times lately. Been a little less patient with poor Julian. If you’re reading this, Julian, I’m sorry.

But I am going through a lot of ‘stuff” lately and it’s making me a tad short with people. Please stay tuned as I adjust to my new emotional reality and learn how to actually deal with my emotions instead of just suppressing everything with the help of depressions big cold wet blanket effect.

Particularly bad was when I snapped at some random furry (with a terrible fursona name, which I shan’t share) for making the typical newbie mistake of trying to sort of worm their way into an existing cuddle between two fuzzies.

And I get it. When you are new, it is really hard to figure out how to get in on the socialization (and etcetera) going on, especially if like most of us you are socially awkward and therefore not exactly well equipped to get to know people.

But it’s also the exact sort of thing that will set me off because I value intimacy very highly and when I am having a nice cuddle with a friend or two, the last thing I want is some random person I don’t know butting in and shattering the connection.

So, to my great shame, I said something like, “Excuse me, were you invited? ”

And to their credit, they said “Were you?” A respectable riposte.

And I said something like, “I have known this fur forever, I don’t need an invitation. But I don’t know you at all. It’s rude to barge in on people like this. Don’t presume. ”

Presumption is a pretty big crime in my books. It’s what, in a court of manners, I would charge too-friendly servers and salesmen who talk like we’re long lost friends with.

Don’t presume, assholes. We don’t know each other. You don’t get to talk to me like that. Please remove your unwanted intimacies from my environs.

Anyhow, I immediately regretted being such a bitch. I apologized to the person in question over and over but I know that only goes so far.

So, that’s a permanent black mark on my record, as far as I am concerned. And I am ashamed of it. A previous, less testy version of me would have shrugged off the presumption and welcomed this clearly lonesome person into our cuddle, and did my best to make them feel included.

Then again, it’s a lot easier to be a super nice person when you’re kind of dead inside.

In the real world, with real emotions, it’s a lot more complicated.

So I consider that incident to be a learning moment for me. That’s like a teachable moment, but you are teaching yourself.

Sadly, sometimes in life, our life lessons come at the expense of others. And to me, that’s the worst possible kind of lesson. I would much rather suffer myself. That I can fix, that I can heal.

But when you hurt others, that’s it. It’s done. You have harmed that person in a way that can never be fully erased. It can’t be “fixed”. It just…. is.

So, sorry random fur. If it helps, I feel really bad about it.

But this is the sort of territory I am in now, and I had better get used to it. The stakes are higher now that I am unfreezing my emotions. Things can happen very quickly when my emotions are this close to the surface. Faster, in fact, than I can stop myself.

So self-control is a whole new game now. Much more strategic, requiring foresight into what might set me off and advanced efforts to head that shit off.

But one thing is for sure : I am not going to even try to put my emotions back in their tiny stuffy box. The very notion nauseates me. I will do whatever else it takes in order to steer myself toward being the person I want to be, but I won’t kill my own emotions just to make things easier for myself.

Easier isn’t always better. It’s just… easier. Sometimes the easiest route is the one that leads straight to your own personal Hell here on Earth.

Sometimes the path of least resistance suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.

And sometimes happiness takes work. I think that’s one of the ways depression keeps its hold on people : by biasing you against effort in all forms, it cuts you off from the sort of joyful, life-affirming activities that threaten its death grip on you.

To someone suffering from depression’s brutal austerity campaign, the idea that something that requires a large input of energy could be worth it is a total nonstarter – a thought nearly impossible to think, no matter how true.

That does double if it’s a constant input over time, and triple that if it is an expenditure with no clear end point.

For example, I can convince myself to do something uncharacteristically social if it has a time limit. That way, I can mentally anticipate the amount of wherewithal I will need to reserve ahead of time for the event, and in that way I can cope with it.

But if it was something with no set time limit and no easy escape route if I get freaked out and loads of social stimulation from being alone with strangers, there would have to be a really, really good reason for me to be there.

Like money. Or sex. Or a sniper’s sight trained on my forehead. That kind of thing.

Otherwise, I will just stay home, thank you kindly.

I can learn to be more social. And I want to. Very much so.

But I will always be a homebody introvert at heart.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

But first, a joke :

Atheist at Disneyland (through bullhorn) : That’s not the real Mickey, you know. It’s an actor in a costume. That’s not even what the real Mickey looks like. Because I have news for all you sheeple…. the real Mickey isn’t even here today. I checked and I didn’t seem him anywhere. So go ahead and worship your fake Mickey and your made up Snow White and your fairy tale Goofy, you mindless feeders! Meanwhile, my smart friends and I will be laughing at how stupid you are in the forums of my blog, WhatHaveYouDoneWithTheRealMickey,com. Man, people are so STUPID!

And that, my friend, is my idea of satire.

So anyhow, back to talking incessantly about how mad I am.

I figure this rage (against the machine)  marathon is something I was supposed to go through when I had my actual adolescence, back in the Eighties. The passive acceptance of one’s fate that comes with being a child and having a child’s conceptio of the world gives way to what one might call the Terrible Twos Part Two, where the teen realizes the world is not as they want it and they are not at all happy with their lot in life and they want to scream their bloody heads off till someone fixes it.

And that’s just the surface stuff. Under the hood, a lot of complex social needs are awakening in the teen’s mind and sending weird signals that make them do things they do not understand but know they just HAVE to do.

Suddenly, their peer group are the most important people in the universe and what their peers think of them is everything and they live and die based on events that seem quite trivial to the adults around them.

And then there’s the whole sex thing to deal with too. Urges. Attractions. Dangers. Desires. The breaking down of the homosocial peer group in favour of something with more access to potential sex partner. And so on and so on.

And now, here my dumb ass is, only getting around to all that shit when I am 45 and way past the point where people would tolerate acting like a teen male from me.

Goddamned differential development. Here I am, brain the size of a planet. Light years ahead of most of humanity in terms of intellectual development. Capable of astounding feats of mental magic and so far ahead of the average person in terms of understanding and insight that it gets hard sometimes not to think of them as children.

And yet, they are all league ahead of me in terms of emotional development. They went through all those stages of becoming an adult. They dealt with the hormones and the parental conflicts and the changing mental landscape while I was off in my tiny ice palace of the mind reading comics and playing video games and watching far, far too much television in order to pass the time.

They obeyed their instincts and grew up to be healthy, well balanced individuals who go on to do reasonably well in life.

Whether or not they had a choice in the matter is up for debate. ^[1]

The point remains that they, who are by the usual definition not nearly as “smart” as I am, go on to have happy, normal lives, whereas a genius like me ignored all those seemingly irrational urgings from my instincts and ended up so emotionally retarded that I am barely making it to social adolesence at the point in my life where most people start pondering their own mortality.

And all because I was “smart” and thought I knew better and was even patting myself on the back for not being like those “mindless” teens chasing their hormones around and doing all kinds of “pointless” things that seemed downright silly to me.

Pity those who are smart enough to be that stupid.

It never occurred to me that maybe all that stuff had some kind of purpose that I just could not see and that there was a very good reason that everyone else my age went through all that adolescent brouhaha and I just lacked the perspective to see it.

Sometimes, everyone does the same things the same way because it works.

Now, in my defense, there was the slight logistical problem that I was a gay teen in a small town in the 80’s, and so pursuing a sexual awakening under those conditions would have been complicated to say the least and quite possibly dangerous as well.

But I still could have tried something. I could have gone to events like dances where people my age congregated and tried to learn to navigate that social space. I could have looked around for people I might be able to relate to despite all my social damage and my inconveniently stratospheric IQ. I could have forced myself to stay in high energy social spaces until I was able to get used to them enough so that I was not freaking out all the damned time.

But no. I was so very damaged by then that, realistically speaking, that was never going to happen. Not back then. And the only reason I can contemplate such things now is that I have gone far enough down the road to recovery that I can see my own part in my isolation and imagine ways it might be overcome.

Back then, I didn’t stand a chance.

So here I am, at this absurd point in life where I am finally ready to be a teenager and in many ways it is far, far too late.

They say you’re never too old to have a happy childhood, but try telling that to the security guards at Gymboree.

That was another joke. Of sorts.

That’s my time, folks. You’ve been a great audience. Remember to tip your waitresses, and remember boys, better blatant than latent, but better latent than never!

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.,