Desktop Cleanliness

Believe it or not I experiment with other aspects of my life other than the physical. Today I'm experimenting in desktop cleanliness.

Sure, the headline isn't as eye catching as say, "John Tries Buttsex, Hilarity Ensues," but I'm hoping you appreciate the subtle seduction of my shiny new iMac displaying this every time tickle it out of hibernation.

Proof that not every aspect of a 22 year old man is a mess.

I'm not allowed to blow my seeds of knowledge all over your face... book.

It's official, Facebook users find me abusive (click picture above to enlarge)

Abusive?! Pish-posh! What in Uncle Sam's red-white-and-blue balls sort of fascist bolognae is that? Censorship? On the intertubes? Egads!!

Tomorrow they'll be saying hate-fucking Sarah Palin with a pipe cleaner is abusive... hey wait a minute...

Are you nice? I was...

Many drinks, cigarettes, and long term relationships later, I've come to accept the fact that I've become what at the outset of puberty I would have categorized as a womanizing douchebag. Lo! How the wise become wiser!

The heartfelt warmth of genuine romantic love certainly paints misogyny as a lonely behavior, but for what it lacks in soulful fiber it makes up for in safety. Let me explain. When I was dating the woman I was convinced I was going to marry some time ago, I had certain expectations. I expected her to be kind, to flash me a smile every once and awhile, to not go out and fuck her chemistry TA in an effort to preserve her facade of a future in medicine, etc. Needless to say, I was crushed.

It was a difficult lesson to learn, but I no longer have expectations for woman. Without expectation I now could care less if they go out and ball some bro-tacular gentleman on the couch in the middle of a crowded frat party. I don't care if they snort coke in their spare time, participate in a drunken hit and run, or forget to wish me a happy birthday. In the present, if they are there and are interesting, I'll give them my attention, but upon departure they might as well have ended up a puddle leftover from a back alley abortion (circa '86 thru '89 - I don't condone sex with teenagers). They become strangers to me, and I've never put much stock into strangers.

Basically this is all just leading up to a short list of personally fulfilling activities I participate in now that I don't waste my emotions on the women I sleep with:

1. Finding alternate, better looking women to sleep with.
2. Smoking tobacco products without fear of retribution in the form of sex withheld.
3. Paying for my dinner only.
4. Getting rip-roaring drunk without concern that I will wake up in a strange woman's bed and betray my beloved.
5. Taking needlessly long shits with the door open.

Now that I think about it, I think the only woman I will ever truly love is my mother, she is quite dear.

Wordle

This is compiled with words from my posts so far using Wordle. I liked how it put "Zelda" in there with words like "ejaculation" and "smarmy".

(And yes, I totally ripped this off from somebody else).

The Septic Fog of the Unintelligent Woman

Recently I've had the (dis)pleasure of becoming better acquainted with an attractive girl with whom I happened to have a bit of an interlude. I've only hung out with her a handful of times, yet I am quite certain I know the five (really, there are only five) elements of her character.

5. When operating a motor vehicle, she will drive as recklessly as possible. Actions include but are not limited to driving 40mph over the speed limit, tailgating in distances measured in centimeters, simultaneously driving in two lanes, utilizing the sidewalk as magical turning utility, and under absolutely no conditions straining to lift her wrist in order to activate her turn signal.

4. When in need of a topic of conversation, she will talk about her hometown to strangers and familiars alike, speaking ill of other municipalities with little to no censorship in the presence of natives. These natives in turn threaten her with violence or batter her with insults she is unable to process (a common difficulty when one has a reading level somewhere between Jello Jigglers and protozoa.)

3. When in need of self esteem, she will flaunt shady acts she has been involved with in an effort to construct a gangster image around a 100 lb blond white girl (like cold fusion, a non-realistic goal).

2. When in need of entertainment, she will simultaneously watch reality television and shuffle through an endless stream of remixed local tunes of the hyphy variety. This of course is streamed to sonic perfection at 96kbs. Mmm, tinnitus.

1. Under no circumstances will she display any form of emotion other than complete indifference toward everything. Exceptions include laughing at her own jokes or gasping when remembering another pointless tale that is somehow significant enough to share, yet somehow so significant that all substantial details are omitted. This lends one to believe that absolutely nothing she says is factual.

I find this last one to be the most striking of the five. I don't think it is very likely that a pretty white girl from a wealthy pedigree and raised in the upper-crust Cali 'burbs would be regularly exposed to gang warfare and classroom arms dealing. But hey, if there is one thing I've learned in this crazy world, anything is possible.

Despite immediately identifying these shortcomings, I decided I to give her a shot anyway. (I know, how sweet of me). I made the choice to be open to the idea of whatever amniotic succubus of a culture she subscribed. However, as the hours passed I began to feel strange. I deduced that I was experiencing the effects of an odorless and colorless gaseous element, produced by a blending of her foundation and lipgloss (a reaction similar to the mixing of bleach and ammonia and create poisonous chlorine). This compound, which I have dubbed "The Septic Fog," swiftly moved my thought process through three consecutive stages beyond my initial willingness to give her personality the benefit of the doubt:

1. "Fuck it. No matter how lifeless and bland your character strikes me as, it is still more entertaining to tune out your nonsense that sit at home playing The Legend of Zelda for the 1,000th time. I'll hang out for awhile and look at your exceptional legs and hope for a BINGO."

2. "Fuck it. You are so lifeless and bland in character that I'm actually going home to play The Legend of Zelda for the 1,000th time."

3. "Fuck it. I am so mentally taxed from trying to re-interpret your mindless blathering into meaningful speech that I am unable to beat The Legend of Zelda, even though I've done it 1,000 times. I wonder if I could strangle myself with this Wii controller..." (demonstration pictured left)

Women who possess the foresight of Stevie Wonder (post Ebony and Ivory, of course) make it difficult for me to respect them as peers. Aside from my mother I can only think of 5 or 6 women I know on a personal level that I genuinely admire. I suppose the same goes for men too, but in a pinch at least you can talk to them about NCAA Division I Football.

Okay so I don't genuinely believe that, but seriously, she was a functioning eggplant on that date. I need the mother of my children to be at least at Gump level on the IQ chart. Come on ladies, go out there and impress me.

Fake Breasts - A Review

Nip/Tuck your nads between you're legs, because this one could get a little bouncy (that's right, I take the risk of you experiencing a high velocity genital impact into account while writing this blog).

Generation Y is the first to come of age having been exposed to sex driven marketing from the day we were purged from our mothers, gagging on our own amniotic fluids. In the last month, the fruit born from family dinners revolving around cosmetic surgery television has ripened and come into my life. I write today as one of the few in my social circle, nay my age group, who has been privy to experience artificially augmented breasts in a non-adult entertainment capacity.

So - is there a big difference? Absolutely.


In short, fake tits are noticeably firmer and less malleable. They sit upright in perfect form at all times, thus to shackle them in a brazier is more of a modesty concern than a measure of practicality.

Does this detract from their appeal? In my opinion I found them to be money well spent, at least in terms of raw physical attraction. They are flesh, a warm, living part of a woman, and I rather fancy women as a whole. As a male, however, I have a bias opinion, as I have not come across a breast via personal encounter that I didn't enjoy in one way or another. The real question is how did they stimulate my brain?

Since being force fed playboys and internet pornography since oh, age 10, I have come to associate certain traits as being sexually ideal in a woman. I have been attracted to, had sex with, and had serious relationships with plenty of women who did not meet these ideals, and in no way did I find those experiences less rewarding because they lacked DD's or waxed bikini lines. But to be with a woman who is the image of my adolescent fantasy, straight out of Maxim, is an odd feeling indeed. I've grown up associating women like these with my computer screen and fucking my own fist. Never have I considered them as breathing individuals I could reach out and touch, and what's more, would touch me back. After years of coveting these objects of my libido, I was able to enjoy one, and in the process I shattered an illusion.

I think it goes without saying these women have been put on the societal alter and worshipped as false goddesses. Did possession of these fabled tits have me shaking in my boots with my own insecurities? Absolutely. However, in hindsight I've found this reaction was completely unwarranted, and doubt I will have it again.

Women who have these extensively market-tested traits are no more sexually dynamic than natural women, and possibly even less so. One of the sexiest thing a man can find in a woman is that look of self accomplishment - that "I've convinced you that you're dying to fuck me" smirk. This process of convincing could have lasted weeks or even months (dare I say years?), and the release after all that anticipation is as genuine as a child's on Christmas morning. 10's who have surgically acquired their features already know you're dying to fuck them. They slapped those tits on so they could have control of at least one variable in a world of uncertainty. They suffer from a need of sexual assurance, an inability to cope with their own shortcomings and wrote themselves a silicone prescription. That type of deep seeded insecurity doesn't exactly result in a boon of mental arousal.

I personally find it more attractive when a girl is high on that feeling of self worth, taking it like a shot of cocaine straight up the nose and bucking beneath you until she peaks. After that arduous, hormone laden journey when she's finally reached her apex, you can watch her eyes glaze over in a deep, however fleeting sense of peace and self worth. Does it make sense that I find it less appealing when woman has to mainline polymer validation like a jittering addict? Sexual fulfillment, like any good drug, is best enjoyed recreationally, not medicinally. Needing to know you are walking masturbatory inspiration in your quest for emotional equilibrium is not a turn on. Artificial sexuality, in my limited experience, seems to come off as glaringly artificial, no matter how damn good her surgeon was.

(for the record, that man deserves artistic recognition, for surely he is a renaissance master of breast sculpture)

Sex and Drugs.

Every morning I take 200mg of Zoloft, followed by anywhere from 0.25mg to 2mg of Xanax spread throughout the day. Let me tell you about how this affects my dick.

In the medical community, they call it "delayed ejaculation", which is a very dry term used to describe a sexual situation involving utter exhaustion and being covered in vaginal fluids. Sound like business as usual? Add being so re-goddamn-diculously pent up and pissed you want to grab the nearest pointed object, whether it be a tweezer or your cunt-of-a-girlfriend's vibrator, and pry out your fucking eyeballs.


In the tongue of the brown people, it's referred to as being unable to acquire one's "nut". Let me explain. I can drill a girl bareback for up to two hours, pounding her with my 6.4 inch rod until her pussy is raw and the sheets are drenched. I'll fuck her until she wails and flails more times than Streisand (pictured left) has performed farewell concerts, but I won't get off. Mind you, these are good looking women, several of which are pumas in the sack. In spite of this, a solid 34% of my sexual interludes end without release. No goof gravy. None. Please don't badger me by asking for photographic evidence to vouch for the attractiveness of these women. I'm not going to give it to you. You don't need it. You're as queer as a sack of hammers.

I don't know if I've made this clear yet, but the situation is a tad inconvenient, and a literal pain in the balls.

Fun fact #47: Delayed ejaculation is one of the most common side effects of taking SSRI antidepressants. You may or may not have known that Fun Fact #47 has spawned one of the greater ironies of the 21st Century, the reality that we live in a world where modern anti-depressants (happy pills) are prescribed to treat premature ejaculation (the condition of being too happy). I've never suffered from being too happy, sexual or otherwise. I take antidepressants to relieve my unprovoked panic attacks, and they do their job. Sometimes I imagine pharmaceutical reps and physicians cackling and gagging between mouthfuls of lobster and Walker Blue. I picture myself bussing tables, collecting champagne flutes caked with lipstick as I piece together their conversation. I try to look busy as I strain to absorb the semi-intelligible chortling of the smarmy red bastards. At some point, amidst the candor and the bull, I stumble upon the great, twisted half-truth: It would have been cheaper to whack off my demons, and better for my prostate too.