Sex is in the brain. The kind of sex that is wet and noisy and muscle cramping and not the kind of sex that is penis and vagina and testosterone and estrogen. In other words: fucking as opposed to reproductive roles. Coitus not gender. But the meaning of sex is more expansive than just intercourse. You can use words to describe the physical act but without the brain it is a meaningless endeavor. An event without content. Merely a biological process. It’s fucking boring.

 

Exciting sex is dependent on the circumstance. What are you thinking? What led up to the sex. Where is the sex? And of course the often overlooked until it’s too late aspect of sex, what the fuck happens after the sex? If you are having any kind of coherent thought during the sex then it is boring. If there is a magical sequence of curiosity, sexual tension, flirting, teasing, guilt, resolve, over powering imagination, weakening resolve, electric excitement and ultimately failed restraint, then the sex is exciting. If the sex takes place at the location where restraint failed or there is a hurried, manic trail leading from location of the failed restraint to the place of sex, then the sex is exciting. If you aren’t racked with guilt and driven to momentary despair by the aftermath of the sex then the sex was boring. It’s boring.

 

Exciting sex is so reliant on the brain that the actual physical act is secondary to the events surrounding the physical act. The actual physical act is secondary to the brain’s interpretation of the events surrounding the physical act. Interpretation. Of course the aforementioned sequence is my sequence but your brain must determine its own sequence. A sequence that leads to real sex. Brain sex. Boring?

     I’ve had something of a revelation. My first real revelation. You know, the kind that changes your life. I don’t mean it will change my daily activities. I mean it will change my daily thinking. The really fucked up thing is it sprouts from my last post. Fucked up because I started doing this as a joke and now it is flipping switches in my brain. Well, not entirely, but it was certainly part of the process. I had a thought. A jumbled, incoherent thought that somehow turned into my last post. But a few days later, that original thought, mixed with the post, provided the catalyst for my Revelation. As stupid as it sounds, it was like somebody flipped a switch. I finally understood. No, I am not on drugs. And yes, I do feel it is appropriate to capitalize Revelation from this point on. I’m not fucking around here, this is serious business. Fuck you, like you give a shit.

 

     I do not mean this to be self indulgent babbling. Completely wrapped up in my own universe and sharing it because obviously every person on this planet is planning their schedule around me. Every person on this planet has me in mind. Every person on this planet is trapped in my orbit. Revolve around me. Right? That is how it works? Every little detail. Beyond what I am thinking, down to the tiniest, little, dumb fucking insignificant detail. What I ate for breakfast. What kind of shoes I am wearing. What CD I am obsessing over. What I dreamt about last night. What my relatives are doing. Do you want to know the plot of the last movie I watched? Of course you do. Do you want to know what I watched on TV last night? Of course you do. Do you want to know what I plan on watching on TV tonight? Mother Fucking of course you do. Like you give a shit?

 

     I’m not going to reveal It because that would diminish It. It would diminish It because I don’t have the ability to accurately describe It. The Revelation. I’m talking about the Revelation, not what I plan on watching on TV tonight. Also, because I’m selfish and revealing the Revelation would allow others to steal it and make it their own. You know what I’m talking about; you read or hear something that feels right. It feels so right that you want to make it your own. It gives you the intellectual upper hand. Or maybe it helps pick up girls better. Either way, the less people that know the real source, the better. Well this really is mine. Do you give a shit?

Don’t worry, it’s only kinky the first time. Unconsciousness. The kind that you choose. Drinking yourself to oblivion. Ollieing over 12 stairs. Humping a psychotic girl. Jumping dirt bikes in the desert. Getting jumped into a gang. Training to be an MMA fighter. Driving in an adolescent street race. Drinking and driving in an adolescent street race. Drinking and driving without a seatbelt in an adolescent street race. Walking down the same street where an adolescent street race is taking place. Training for war. Raising your first child. Being raised as the first child. Writing long verbose meaningless shortened abbreviations of condescended full form broken sentences about William Strunk, Jr. Of course most people wouldn’t last as long as fart in a whirlwind.

My words are raining like a cow peeing on a flat rock. Memory. The kind that chooses you. I’m not talking about a good storyteller who molds their experiences into a funny recollection. I’m not talking about a nostalgic brain trip through your bike riding, Barbie playing, jump roping, hop scotching, tag playing, chasing the pigtails, G I Joeing childhood. I’m not talking about a therapy induced fake remembrance about real life abuse from your loving parents. I’m not talking about recapturing the foggy mist of a drug induced night. I’m not talking about accurately recalling your life. I’m talking about the completely unreliable process of collecting experiences, storing those very same experiences and recalling them in some mutated form. Hugs are better than drugs.

I feel like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack. Unconsciousness and memory. Memory and unconsciousness. Two conflicting forces that are impossible to reconcile. Memory is the antithesis of unconsciousness is the antithesis of memory. Two seemingly contrary concepts that  repeatedly engage in a struggle from which only one survives. Two very dissimilar elements very often linked together. Near death and afterlife. Dreams and reality. Stupor and enlightenment. Death and afterlife. Near dreams and reality. Only one can be real and constant. They can not live together. Yet much of humanity’s ultimate goals spring from the marriage of the two. An impossible marriage. An unnatural matrimony between to like poled magnets, constantly pushing away from each other, but abnormally bound by the mind. This is as screwed up as a soup sandwich.

People are fucking weird. I’m weird. You’re weird. Everybody you know is weird and everybody you don’t know is weird. Weird. That one word universally describes humans. Accurately describes humans. Describe a human. Faithful companions of collectors of fashion, endorsing the maximum entropy Markov model in accordance with the natural law of humans, weird.

 

It all boils down to perspective. A person has something in their head. Let’s say thing 1. A different person has something in their head. Let’s say thing 2. It is impossible for those two things to be identical. No matter how closely they resemble each other they are different. They may be equivalent but they are not equal. Thing 1 is not thing 2 and can never be thing 1 can never be thing 2. The universe belongs to a single person. Better yet, a person has their own universe. You are weird to me because you are not me. I am weird to you because you are not me. Get out of your fucking head, weirdo.

 

Fuck that. I’m not weird. You’re weird. I own the world and everything in it til death do us part mother fuck shitball. It all boils down to my perspective. Nothing else is real. When I walk through a crowd I determine how they feel. My god is the God. I am the model for perceiving . I define what a family is. I define what a friend is. I define what music is, love is, culture is, education is, class is, classless is, sex is, right is, state is, meaning is. I define what is. That’s why, in the end, the human race is fucked. Perspective cannot play nicely, it is just too unfriendly. Fuck weird.