A Craving Sweeter than the Taste
I think we're all familiar with the phenomena of deluded nostalgia. A time certain passes, and one's mind begins to sift through distant blissful memories absent the realities of the feeble human condition. Ultimately, we succumb to the gravity of a past born more of fantasy than fact, and are somehow surprised to find ourselves disappointed in this indulgence.
Probably the best example of this process can be seen when we have a sudden itch for the company of a former paramour. Rather than logically reminding ourselves why this person was long ago dispensed with, we conveniently create excuses to ignore the memory's evidence of a past not worth re-engaging.
And the result? I'm sure we've all experienced the exquisite pain of a "what the fuck was I thinking?" morning after. Suffice it to say, waking up with someone previously relegated to a lesser priority than the efficient tandem of your right hand and fertile imagination has a way of intimately acquanting you with the concept of regret. The fleeting spoils of your conquest of obsolescence aside, no measure of rationalization will return to you a comfortable distance from this once vanquished albatross. Now, with little more than a swift stroke of your less than magic wand, the pleasant sanctuary of your individuality must again suffer the infestation of unwelcome company.
Ironic, is it not? Our formidable capacities for logic and reason subjugated by the caprice and whimsy of our fickle lusts. In the final analysis, it appears salvation rests in our collective acknowledgment of this inevitability. No matter how furiously we resist, we shall always be beholden to our biological imperative. Spare me Darwinian concepts of evolution. Yes, I may evolve, but my cock is permanently transfixed in the Jurassic period. At the end of the day, I am little more than overqualified roadie its "Spread the Seed" world tour, and it's time I learn to dig the ride. Higher minded concepts of manhood and chivalry aside, I'm tired of driving this Porsche with the emergency brake on.
And, yes, this entire commentary was merely a pretext to analogizing my penis to a high-performance sportscar.
I think we're all familiar with the phenomena of deluded nostalgia. A time certain passes, and one's mind begins to sift through distant blissful memories absent the realities of the feeble human condition. Ultimately, we succumb to the gravity of a past born more of fantasy than fact, and are somehow surprised to find ourselves disappointed in this indulgence.
Probably the best example of this process can be seen when we have a sudden itch for the company of a former paramour. Rather than logically reminding ourselves why this person was long ago dispensed with, we conveniently create excuses to ignore the memory's evidence of a past not worth re-engaging.
And the result? I'm sure we've all experienced the exquisite pain of a "what the fuck was I thinking?" morning after. Suffice it to say, waking up with someone previously relegated to a lesser priority than the efficient tandem of your right hand and fertile imagination has a way of intimately acquanting you with the concept of regret. The fleeting spoils of your conquest of obsolescence aside, no measure of rationalization will return to you a comfortable distance from this once vanquished albatross. Now, with little more than a swift stroke of your less than magic wand, the pleasant sanctuary of your individuality must again suffer the infestation of unwelcome company.
Ironic, is it not? Our formidable capacities for logic and reason subjugated by the caprice and whimsy of our fickle lusts. In the final analysis, it appears salvation rests in our collective acknowledgment of this inevitability. No matter how furiously we resist, we shall always be beholden to our biological imperative. Spare me Darwinian concepts of evolution. Yes, I may evolve, but my cock is permanently transfixed in the Jurassic period. At the end of the day, I am little more than overqualified roadie its "Spread the Seed" world tour, and it's time I learn to dig the ride. Higher minded concepts of manhood and chivalry aside, I'm tired of driving this Porsche with the emergency brake on.
And, yes, this entire commentary was merely a pretext to analogizing my penis to a high-performance sportscar.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
kdiddy666:
*starts a slow clap*
rubybombshell:
your not al lawyer really are you I need help so bad i'm fighting the devil.