Tremors

Whatever happens I think it’s safe to say that I’m not an awful person. I mean, I’m not running a meth-lab or stabbing hookers or even being around meth-labs or hookers. My life is empty of the really horrible shit everyone can agree on: murder, non-consensual anything, promiscuity, drugs, alcohol to excess. Now, cigarettes, a minor yet universal evil, have gone out the window. Before that pre-marital sex was put on hold indefinitely. I haven’t had a drink in a few weeks. Haven’t looked at porn in a while, and whenever I do I feel sort of bad for the girls afterward. I have bad language, I’ll admit that, and sometimes a dirty mind. I forgot where I was going with this.

Oh yeah, “things that are universally considered dodgy”: the more I knock off my list, the more of a boring asshole I become. And I don’t really care about that, I’ll be as boring as I please, but when the sex stopped, I stopped being as happy. That’s not to say that having sex was the only thing that made me happy amongst all the things that ended alongside it (like “love” and “everything that went into that relationship”), but you know what I mean. The sex stopped and, I hate to admit this, but it’s the thing I miss the most. It’s not the only thing I miss, I’m not a pig. It’s like the events in the relationship are a sequence of little lite-brite things that I’m viewing from about half the room away, scattered all over the place. But there are several really fucking big lite-brites that are really nice to look at, and they overpower the smaller ones. I hope I’m not digging my own grave here, I just have to work hard to recall small things, and I don’t think I’m awful for seeing sex as a big thing. As far as hindsight goes, it’s the first thing you see.

Maybe I am awful and maybe that’s my whole point. Sex is a vice, and I don’t do it anymore, I therefore become less happy. Smoking, also a vice, and it’s the exact same story. I don’t have anything to look forward to, hour-to-hour anymore. I’m not fixated, there’s no light at the end of the whateverthefuck. Does this make sense? I mean, yeah, good grades are good, but they’re not what satisfies me. I’m satisfied by the bad things, things that are either medically proven to be harmful or potentially emotionally harmful. It’s the risk, I think, the spiciness of it. It’s something I wish I knew more about, something I wish I could control or replace with something that’s not bad for me. I don’t think I’m supposed to live for things that can kill or hurt me. (GUYS, PARADOX, GUYS. DID YOU SEE THAT? THAT’S QUITE A PARADOX. SOMEONE GET THIS GUY A FUCKING PULITZER.)

Self deprecation aside (and I’d prefer an Eisner by the way, bitches) this has me worried. There’s something wrong with me now, or something that’s been wrong my whole life that I’m excavating, slowly revealing the horror of what’s been buried under all my bullshit rationalizing and naïve, pretentious romanticism. If there’s something down there I guess it’s better to know about it than to be ignorant. Ya know, like that movie "Tremors".