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Once again, I'm spectacularly uninspired. Number of things accomplished today: 0. I've experienced periods of lassitude before, but this is ridiculous. Even when I "hate" the story I'm writing, I usually SOWISA(and thank you, Uncle Stevie, for that acronym), but I've misplaced my fucking strapon. I'm just blah, and not just about fannish activity. I don't give a dead carp and a wet fart about class, either.
I'm just tired. Bone tired. I know life isn't supposed to be a cotton-candy carnival where the party never stops, but at this point, I'm wondering when the fun starts and whether it has free parking. When I was younger, I thought life held such possibility, but with the brightest light of my youth behind me, the road only seems to grow narrower.
I thought I'd get married, you know. That I'd meet a guy willing to overlook my decidedly unsexy packaging and settle down. I'd be like most folks, working at a job I hated in exchange for the happy grace notes of watching TV and rubbing socks with someone who made me light up like Glo-Worm with a Mag-Lite up his ass. Sure, I'd suffer the indignity of death and taxes, but I'd get the good parts of living, too.
Except I haven't. Five years ago, I came to the quiet, unhappy conclusion that I'd never get married, and that my only brush with the holy altar would be as a stiffening corpse in a cheap coffin. I've done my best to make peace with this truth, but I still long for the wish, the treacly Disney miracle.
Sometimes I wonder why God, who's supposed to love us all so much, you'll recall, put me in such an undesirable body, but didn't have the decency in His all-powerful ass to relieve me of biological urges and basic emotional needs that will never be satisfied.
He put me in a society that denies my humanity and its attendant sexual drives and identities while simultaneously ensuring that I'd know what I was missing.
How benevolent. It sounds like a bad Fox reality show(and now I'm having visions of Jesus and Michael huddling on a fluffy sofa by Cirrus and sharing a bowl of toasted manna and placing bets on how long it'll be before I snap and violate an entire Hollywood sex shop with my repressed urges. Can you imagine the police negotiator on that call? "Ma'am, I understand your frustration. Put the double-sided Grimace dildo down, and we'll send in this handsome Bop-a-Cop doll.")
I guess what I'm getting at in my convoluted fashion, is that I wouldn't be as bitter about life's obligations if I were allowed to occasionally partake of its fleeting pleasures. But since I know there's just another ass-whipping at the end of the stick I'm supposed to be chasing, I don't care.
I'm just tired. Bone tired. I know life isn't supposed to be a cotton-candy carnival where the party never stops, but at this point, I'm wondering when the fun starts and whether it has free parking. When I was younger, I thought life held such possibility, but with the brightest light of my youth behind me, the road only seems to grow narrower.
I thought I'd get married, you know. That I'd meet a guy willing to overlook my decidedly unsexy packaging and settle down. I'd be like most folks, working at a job I hated in exchange for the happy grace notes of watching TV and rubbing socks with someone who made me light up like Glo-Worm with a Mag-Lite up his ass. Sure, I'd suffer the indignity of death and taxes, but I'd get the good parts of living, too.
Except I haven't. Five years ago, I came to the quiet, unhappy conclusion that I'd never get married, and that my only brush with the holy altar would be as a stiffening corpse in a cheap coffin. I've done my best to make peace with this truth, but I still long for the wish, the treacly Disney miracle.
Sometimes I wonder why God, who's supposed to love us all so much, you'll recall, put me in such an undesirable body, but didn't have the decency in His all-powerful ass to relieve me of biological urges and basic emotional needs that will never be satisfied.
He put me in a society that denies my humanity and its attendant sexual drives and identities while simultaneously ensuring that I'd know what I was missing.
How benevolent. It sounds like a bad Fox reality show(and now I'm having visions of Jesus and Michael huddling on a fluffy sofa by Cirrus and sharing a bowl of toasted manna and placing bets on how long it'll be before I snap and violate an entire Hollywood sex shop with my repressed urges. Can you imagine the police negotiator on that call? "Ma'am, I understand your frustration. Put the double-sided Grimace dildo down, and we'll send in this handsome Bop-a-Cop doll.")
I guess what I'm getting at in my convoluted fashion, is that I wouldn't be as bitter about life's obligations if I were allowed to occasionally partake of its fleeting pleasures. But since I know there's just another ass-whipping at the end of the stick I'm supposed to be chasing, I don't care.
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