I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted by my penis.
It was bad enough that when I woke up after my afternoon nap, it was 4:45 pm. That’s around an hour and a half ish late.
I try to eat lunch between 3 pm and 3:30 pm every day,. although my track record on that has gone into the shitter lately.
As meal times go, it’s becoming increasingly theoretical.
But even if I had gotten my poop in a group and eaten at 5 pm or so, it still would have been better than eating my “lunch” at 6 pm.
Which is what I am doing right now. Sigh.
See, I let myself get distracted by the urge to masturbate. This has been happening to me a lot lately, despite how rarely I actually get to ejaculate.
I tend to think of it as “wearing out the battery” instead. I might not get to cum but the urge to play with myself is discharged and goes away for a while, and I suppose that’s the next best thing.
And while I was masturbating, I was telling myself that I didn’t care how late it was getting, I was going to finish. Even if it took till 6 pm!
But then my erotic adventure ground to a halt when my penis started feeling sore and too sensitive, and as the glow of lust faded, I knew regret.
Because it was 5:50 pm and I felt very dumb.
Like I said earlier, the urge to jerk my gherkin has been hitting me a lot lately, I don’t know why that would be.
Something to do with the season? Might I been “in rut”, or somesuch?
Who knows. All I know is that it has become somewhat of a nuisance as well as a health hazard as certain parts vital to the operation get quite sore, and protest.
And that hasn’t happened to me since I was a teenager. Weird.
Of course, part of the problem is that, as an idle and shiftless invalid, I spend far too much time pantsless, and that means temptation is alway close at hand.
So to speak.
I have tried to mend my semi-naked ways. Hanging around nude or sans pantalon is comfortable (and convenient), but I think it is ultimately bad for my mental health because it encourages me to stay in a soft, dreamy, bedtime state of mind instead of waking up fully and engaging with the day.
And I am definitely happier when I am activated and engaged.
It’s just easier to stay in dreamland, and so that’s what I do.
Forcing myself into action on my own initiative never seems to work for very long. There’s only so long I can ignore my every instinct, I guess.
As wrong and self-destructive as those instincts are.
The Holy Grail would be to find my own inherent motivation to want to engage with the world on a more robust basis,
Nobody needs to force themselves to do something they want to do, after all.
But as with its mythological namesake, I have been fruitlessly pursuing said inherent motivation for a very long time, catching glimpses of it now and then, but never able to catch up with it.
The Trog, who only wants to hide from the world in his cave, is still too strong in me. I shy away from the world too much and too often to engage.
And I will never fix that via sheer force of will. That never lasts.
I will only fix the Trog’s little red wagon when I heal that big ol Wound.
More after the break.
Ruining it for myself
Learning how to relax and be more natural and spontaneous is proving to be tricky.
Case in point : ordered some KFC tonight. Skip said it would take around 33 minutes to get here. Okay, I thought, what should I do while I wait?
Oh, I know, was my brain’s brilliant retort, I’ll masturbate!
Yes, you read that right. Despite everything I wrote in Part 1, I decided it would be a great time filler to play with myself.
And of course, it always starts off feeling good. But I should not let that fool me because once the pain sets in, it is nasty.
Sure enough, once the honeymoon period (snrk) was over, I felt not just sore but sick. As in nauseous. Because when I over-indulge in onanism, the problems are about a whole lot more than mere friction abrasions.
No, some bit of machinery located close to my cajones but between them gets very sore too, and when it gets sore, so do los cojones.
This produces a feeling a lot like having been kicked in the nuts, hence the nausea.
Ain’t my life fun?
So anyhow, I did the stupid thing, and as a result, my KFC order is slowly getting cold as I wait for my balls to calm down enough to let me eat.
It’s looking good. I had a few nibbles on the contents of my Boneless Box[1] and I seem to be handling it OK.
My fries are cold, though. Ick.
Now I know that the important part of this event is how I interpret it. Traditionally, I would be beating myself up over it quite brutally, telling myself how stupid I am for doing it and raking myself over the coals.
Like I have been doing thus far.
But that comes from an expectation of being able to control outcomes, and a resulting unforgiving or even merciless attitude to my own failures.
This is a disastrously bad attitude towards life.
I’ve alway been a cautious person. And that can be a good thing. But there is nothing o good that too much of it can’t turn it bad.
And for me, “caution” has grown out of control until it is nothing more than a blanket excuse not to engage with life at all.
Because of course, nothing can ever be completely safe. Ergo, the only way to be safe is to not do anything.
It’s more complicated than that, of course, but that captures the gist.
This is what happens when a regime of “safety fascism” takes over in one’s mind. “Safety Above All” is its motto and its rallying cry, and petty little concerns like whether you’re happy or content or want to be alive any more don’t concern it.
But you’re not safe. That’s the irony of it all. This regime completely fails to keep you safe because the regime itself is a bigger danger than anything from the outside.
Nobody in the real world has done anything to hurt me in the real world for a really long time. My life is completely safe from outside threats.
It’s the people in my head who abuse me.
Think I will start taking risks just to spite them.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.