Feeling pretty fucking depressed right now, so I figured, time to blog.
As you might have guessed (but don’t feel bad if you did not), I am back at the annihilistic phase of my mood cycle. Right now, I hate the world, hate life, hate reality, hate people, hate everything because everything is so loud and stupid and horrible and vile and meaningless to me and nothing has any fucking point.
Were I some mighty god, this would be the day I launched my biblical Flood, kicked off Rangnarok, intiated Armageddon, ended the Cycles, burned the sky, dropped the Bomb, and turned everyone’s ice cream to cream of tartar.
So here’s some random furry porn.
What the hell, I have to express my sexuality somehow. And redirecting rage into horniness is a time honored male tradition. Helps us stay domesticated.
Make love not war. Fuck for peace.
I have been thinking about my “damage” a lot lately. It’s good that I have a clear conscious idea of it now. It’s like I have serious and unhealable physical damage that makes me weak and fragile and now that I can feel it clearly, I can begint the process of learning to route around it and do what I want to do despite it.
Of course, it’s more complicated than that, because physical ailments are a lot easier to define and control. If your legs don’t work, your legs don’t work, and you simply (not easily, just simply) find ways to get around it.
My damage is much deeper than that, and far less predictable. And it’s entangled with things like my sense of self, and sense of reality, and my relationship with a world that has no idea I exist and doesn’t give a shit whether I live, die, or go insane.
And it’s hard not to take that personally.
Time for more gay fur porn.
And I am just so fucking sick of it all. All the bullshit of my life. Wasting my precious time alive playing video games all day while squatting in my own darkness and filth and inanity in an utterly pointless and futuile existence with no product, no meaning, no content, no substance, and no more evidence of my existence than a grease stain on the side of a highway where some roadkill once died.
Jesus fuck, that’s harsh even for me. I think I just shocked myself.
On the whole, that is probably a good thing. Spiritually instructive, or somesuch.
One last bit of fur porn for this half of today’s entry.
WARNING : it’s totally pedo.
Trust me, that’s much tamer than what I really wanted to post. I am one sick son of a bitch. Be glad no adults were involved.
Or nonanthros. Or…. bathroom substances.
Sometimes I wonder if there are other fetishes lurking in my brain.
But with those three, who needs any more?
They’re already enough to doom me.
Now where’s that goddamed line?
Not changing the furry art. It is what it is and it says what it says about me.
Kind of a relief to confess it, however obliquely. Having to hide a huge part of who you are for fear of total social ruin and becoming a figure so hated that normal, healthy people will gladly speculate on all the horrifying ways in which they would love to kill you really does crreate a great deal of stress in one’s soul.
It’s been a long time since I was in the closet about being gay. Once I left my home town, I didn’t give a shit who knew any more.
But there are a lot of other closets and I am highly unlikely to come out of any of the ones I have left – especially that last one – any time soon or maybe ever.
It’s not impossible that I will live long enough for the public opinion on people like me to soften – I have already seen faint evidence that the tide has turned in the form of bold articles bravely willing to admit that people like me might, in fact, be human beings with at least a couple of rights – but I am not going to hold my breath.
And I know I could be a powerful advocate for my people. After all, none of us asked to be the way we are and there is no cure, so it’s not like we could change if we wanted to do so. Nobody has the slightest clue how human sexual imprinting works, as as far as we know, it is permanent.
And that’s just as true for people like me as it is for homosexuals, people into BDSM, or those who have deep and intimate feelings about furniture.
Furnies, I think they call themselves.
I bet their conventions are amazingly well decorated. At first.
The world is so hostile to people like me that the liberal position is to very reluctantly admit that we might be human beings and so, just in case, we probably shouldn’t be exterminated en masse as long as we never, ever, ever have the kind of sex we want, or even look like we might want to do so.
Sounds kind of like the early days of gay rights, n’est-ce pas? I can only hope that out path to freedom goes even half as well.
And I know, deep down in my soul, that I could be a powerful advocate for our cause. I am articulate, passionate, forceful of personality and possessed of much wit and a good deal of likability. The perfect advocate.
But I can’t do that to my friends and loved ones. Makling oneself into the most hated person in the world is a risk I would gladly take for myself, but who am I to bring that kind of hate down on people associated with me?
And in a way that makes me feel like a coward. Where would we be if Martin Luther King had let that stop him? Surely the cause is important enough to justify the cost.
After all, there are millions of us in the world and we are all suffering in the shadows from all that we must hide in order to be safe.
And I could do a lot to free us.
But I am just too damned scared.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.