Death, Depressed, Lazy, My favorites


Doing my laundry sucks nutsack. This is the sentence that describes my life sometimes.

I wrote a story and it’s not about me: [this might be a first]

He wanted to be the type of guy who described his life by saying that nothing fulfilled him more than the sound that the drink dispenser at work made when he pressed the diet coke button. The fact was that everything fulfilled him. He never felt sadness, he never felt rage, and sometimes he never felt uncomfortable. Other times he felt just uncomfortable enough to be relatable.

He liked himself.

His life was challenging but just enough so that he could complete his challenges. His life was a series of fully acheived goals, and that was nice. He had sex with some women he wanted to, and didn’t have sex with some women who he did not want to. At a cocktail party, which he had never been to, he was constantly regarded with fond memories by the people he met when they talked of him later with friends they were closer to. He had friends who relied on him, but no more than he relied on them. His penis was 6 inches and he was good at using it, though sometimes he came a little earlier than he wanted to. He got reasonably sick every other winter and got over it by drinking Emergen-C and cough medicine and staying home from work for two days.

He wanted to start over. He wanted to see movies and cry at points that didn’t make sense to him. He wanted to have an extensive collection of something embarrassing that he kept because he thought he might have been happier when he wasn’t embarrassed of that collection. He wanted to have a childhood trauma that caused him to hurt someone in the same way. He wanted to have broken a womans heart and her hymen. He wanted to ejaculate early but brag about how big his penis is. He wanted to have done a drug he was ashamed of. He wanted to have an enemy and an argument. He wanted people to dislike him at first glance unreasonably. He wanted to do something bad and feel alive again.

His consistency was frightening to him. How did he know he was happy if he had nothing to compare it against? How could he feel alive again if he already felt alive?

Little did he know that his fear proved that he was happy – his fear was what he needed to compare against. Hold onto that fear young lad, it’s the only thing that keeps you happy.

I’m gonna go check on my laundry. I hope it’s done, but I think it’s still sucking nutsack.


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