Those who seek to suppress and dominate Are the ones least in control themselves — That truth has made itself abundantly clear.
The only thing you can ever manage is your own soul, But you find that difficult, boring, and scary — You’d rather fuck with everyone else’s instead.
Your toddler games fool no one: You are an infantile fool lost in fantasy; Your moral imperatives are a clear deception.
You may distort appearances to fit your fancy But the laws of reality will never bend to your delusion, And in no way will you ever command the soul of another.
For each life you think you’ve successfully restricted, Another hundred, somewhere, are defying your madness With their every breath and movement — All power to them.
Your narcissism has been indulged for too long: It’s time to attend to your own demons, And stop playing the part to everyone else.
As your wrath and rage have been vicious and unsparing I will spend the remainder of your existence Mocking your arrogance and lunacy in equal measure.
The world was not made for you, And your life is a passing fart, So pull your head out of your rotting ass.
Of course, you’re stupid to heed wisdom, And only in your last dying gasp are you likely to fathom That you utterly wasted your life on nonsense.
Sensitive to the changing climate and highly vulnerable to disease, dogwoods are now rapidly becoming extinct in the forests of the Southeastern United States.
They’re also increasingly difficult to grow in even optimal conditions, and apart from the few weeks when they bloom each spring, I think they’re homely little trees.
I do, however, mourn for the birds, pollinators, and other animals that subsist on them, and I hope they can adapt more successfully than the trees have.
Many things will go extinct in my lifetime—the dogwood is likely one of them.
He wasn’t a nice man by any means: coarse, gruff, surly, and prone to cussing out clients and co-workers.
He wasn’t that much older than me, but looked ancient — a good fifty pounds overweight, bulging beer belly, balding head, and a thick, graying beard.
He had a wife and several children and clearly resented the role of family man, bitching about them constantly. The way he talked about women’s titties all the time, I knew he wasn’t getting any either.
On Mondays, he’d boast about being a deacon at his church, struggling to recall details of the preacher’s message. He liked the bits about punishing sinners the best, although he admitted to occasionally falling asleep during the sermon. As he blathered on about being a holy man, I’d secretly roll my eyes.
He was skilled at his profession, I suppose, but dumb as a rock about using a computer, which he masked with typical bravado. I sat near his desk and observed the same scenario many times:
He’d peck slowly at the keyboard, struggle to understand some basic program, mutter and sigh a lot before blurting out, “Something’s wrong with this computer. Must be a virus.”
That’s how he got into the habit of getting me to “fix” his computer. “It’s slowed down. Need you to clean it up,” he’d tell me, before barreling out the door. All I ever did was clear his browser history, making note of the porn sites he’d been visiting.
I guess he liked having someone as a wingman, so he started bringing me along to different work meetings, always hauling me around in his giant pickup truck. He’d rant and rave about the state of the world and talk about himself a lot, rarely asking anything about me. At some point, he started sliding his arm behind me while he was driving.
He usually took off early on Fridays, but one Friday afternoon, we had gone to a late meeting, and he still had to drop me off at the office — he didn’t even know where I lived. When we got into the truck, he suddenly said, “Going out with the wife tonight. Need to change my pants.”
Before I could respond, he was crawling into the back seat, his ass passing in front of my face. I knew in a flash what was happening. It wasn’t an invitation — I knew the kind of porn he liked, after all — but more a cry for someone to validate that he still had it.
Ok, I’ll play along, I thought. Somehow, I’d developed an affinity for the guy.
I watched in the rearview mirror as he took off his dirty jeans, awkwardly shifting and positioning his crotch so I could see it better. His thighs were wide and surprisingly pale and smooth.
The bulge in his tighty-whities was unremarkable, but the sight of it was no less jarring.
His breathing was labored as he pulled on a pair of tight black jeans. Then he opened the door, slammed it shut, and walked to the front.
As he sat down at the steering wheel, I shifted my eyes toward him without turning and said, coolly: “Looking good.”
“Thanks, man!” he beamed with a wide grin, zipping up his pants. I think I made his year.
Doesn’t that describe every 21-year-old male? It’s not a unique trait. Not much of a selling point, either.
I looked through my posting history and couldn’t find a thing that would suggest I was interested in talking to a “huge porn lover,” and based on first-hand experience, their conversation skills are limited at best.
The guy’s less than half my age, too, so there’s that.
The message continued:
What are your favourite kinks/porn videos/pornstars? We can trade favourites if your down btw
So he’s either British or from a country that uses British spelling. He also presumes we’re of the same sexual preference — I’m not so sure on that one.
His misuse of the word “your” indicates he’s not a bot, at least, although it’s clear I’m not dealing with an intellectual heavyweight.
The references to kinks and porn stars suggest a man-child in thrall to his fantasies and hero worship, like there aren’t enough of those in the world right now.
In summary: Can’t say there’s anything about this guy that interests me.
