You know what happens when you masturbate too much? Your dick starts to chafe. You know what happens when you mentally masturbate too much? Something very different.

Everything that someone says becomes an interesting parallel to your own struggle with meta-analysis of your struggle with meta-analysis. Everybody becomes a funhouse mirror of your own personality. Every object becomes a symbolic representation of your inability to anthropomorphize that object into something symbolic from your own life.

This is my 151st entry and I choose number 151 not because it is a prime, a palindrome, and an alcohol, but rather because today is the day that I decided to write about this and today is the day after my 150th entry was written.  I love myself far too much. Nowadays I find it difficult to experience anything without attempting to draw vague parallels to a fabricated childhood trauma that could have happened. Sure, this seems stressful, but in actuality it is what makes my life worthwhile.

Whether it be the swirl that I made on the top of the latte I just poured that reminds me of the figure skating I attempted on my pond as a rural only child with an absence of gender norms to follow because I grew up in a house where my mother proposed to my father and carried all the heavy boxes and my father liked to read poetry and cross his legs or the eccentric mix of curry, sweet potato, and spicy sautéed spinach, tofu and ice cream that matched my eccentric mix of plaid, stripes, corduroy, and pokadots on one vest that laid over my bright green t-shirt that I wore because when you are six inches shorter than the next closest boy in high school you need to find some way to make sure people see you otherwise they will literally walk over you, I am very good at writing run on sentences about my childhood and a minute detail of my current life. These lengthy diatribes of nostalgic pretentious egotism are what make those mundane moments of latte pouring and curry-cream making interesting to me. So maybe the only way to make something interesting to me is to relate it to me, but who’s to say that’s wrong? It may be selfish, but it’s not taking away any caring I would have had for others. In fact, sometimes I participate in other’s lives just to get stories for myself, so at least I’m participating.

So, you may hate my means – the monologues of mental masturbation with almost all the time alliteration – but do not hate my ends because it is only through this mind-chaffing exercise that I am a part of this world. Take away my ability to self-love and I only have self-hate left.