Sometimes I randomly happen upon some very weird thought and I am a bit uncertain on whether I should share it with anyone, let alone my friends, but this one was really bizarre and too funny to pass this off to one of the lost works that I left unwritten and lost to the ether (which I'm just going to stop doing methinks). Here it goes:
While thinking about the lack of my feeling lonely I remember a random quote by Nietzsche:
A woman may very well form a friendship with a man, but for this to endure, it must be assisted by a little physical antipathy.
and then proceed to think:
"My physical antipathy must be just a skosh short of a masochist on PCP being shot by cops because he's driving in a tank made of his own foreskins from multiple self-inflicted circumcisions (while not on PCP) and parts from his expensive and foreign car (an entire tank made entirely of foreskins is not physically possible by any stretch of the imagination or appendages, although consider this one the complete outside all foreskin (besides the cops are shooting this guy, it's not much of a tank)) that was just paid off because I find myself friend-zoned all too much."
Anyhoo, I find when I'm writing I just think in words, not images. I don't really imagine Alison Brie being 2 months pregnant and being fucked by me WHILE I'm writing it, it's just a set of words until I'm finished (otherwise I'd be very distracted by that image). Also, if I was actually INTO that shit I wouldn't be writing about it and putting it on the internet for everyone I know and don't know to see. I'd leave that shit in my mind and masturbate over it like some teenager hiding away his horde of porn (although I must admit Alison Brie is pretty goddamn hot, and impregnating her would be at the very worst 18 years of bitterly having to talk to about the child support check, and at the best: raising fucking awesome kids with Alison Brie as a motherfucking MILFTIAAF (MILF (everyone knows this part) That I Am Actually Fucking) (that last parenthesis sort of just completely contradicted the point I was trying to make about not actually being into that shit, but I'll move on like I made some sort of point about actually being into that shit). Only after I'm done writing do I really start picturing the shit I wrote, if I want to. I have no picture of a tank made of foreskins and expensive foreign cars in my mind's eye. Or any eye, for that matter. Plus, with most things I think of a variable thing like a "masochist" that isn't really specific, but then to really bring the self-inflicting pain home I go to really painful experiences this masochist could have that for any average person, in this case, genitals and cars. Most people see the pain in those two experiences of completely ruining your own car after it's paid for and their genitals being cut for various health and entertainment reasons. I don't really relate to anything that guy is going through besides driving a tank, not the TYPE of tank he decided to engineer together, but different strokes for different folks. An M-4 Sherman would suffice for my choice of tank, if this matters to you at all at this point.
Which brings me to the topic of choice that I said that I'd get to this week: Living with the impulse to impress and learning to control it. Sure, there are times that one needs to sell oneself to get a job, get laid, get a loan, or whatever else. But that doesn't mean you need to go around hiding your weaknesses or feigning strengths as weaknesses or weaknesses as strengths. Or even slyly making your weaknesses as sort of false strengths like, "I'm too nice." or "I'm too honest" or whatever other things one can be "too" for one's various garments, even so much it hurts. It is awesome to recognize your weaknesses and make them not so weak. Impressing others doesn't always have to be showing your strengths, but knowing your limits and trying to expand them, admitting as such.
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