Another Reason I'll Burn in Hell
Years ago, in college, I studied philosophy. Those were the glory days of my intellect. In school I read and discussed and ranted. In bed profound truths taunted me from just outside my grasp. Invariably, on those long, frustrating nights, I turned to something within my grasp for comfort.
Today, of course, I'm not nearly as wise as I was then. Age has a way of unraveling the ties we once had to certainty. Wisdom, like my hair, abandoned me somewhere in my late thirties, leaving behind only a few paltry wisps of arrogance. Where once I was lean and sharp, I'm now dull and plump. With every pound I've added to my hulking frame, I seem to have shaved a point or two off my IQ.
Today, notions such as "an objective criteria for evaluating art," "proof of the existence of a benign being," and "getting out of this shit-hole before the skank wakes up" no longer crowd my mind. With nothing left to ponder, and no one to ponder it with, I'm free to pursue the mundane.
I've memorized the prime time TV schedule, for example, and am trying to solve all of the over 30,000 FreeCell games on my computer (I'm currently on #18,445). I've also compiled a dictionary of scatological terms, but have yet to find a publisher who gives a crap.
I have to admit, though, it has taken me some time to get used to no longer being attractive to the fairer sex. And so I turn to the one useful skill I mastered in college. That's right -- in these days of confusion and uncertainty, masturbation has become my anchor. It tethers me to the coastline of normalcy. It steadies me when buffeted by the winds of fate. And for a few, precious moments, it makes me forget that I'm a fat, bald retard.