I have good friends, but I don’t have close friends. People with whom there is mutual care, even love, but a superficiality of communication. I’ll take credit for that, because I am so gracious. I can’t say I’m in a crisis, because it’s been going on for a decade. My post-traumatic stress disorder. Self-diagnosed, untreated. It unmotivates me, and so there is no hope. I have called out to God, help, but I must not mean it, and he sees my insincerity. Tough love, then. Help yourself.
I have many good ideas. How about underwear for dudes with big packages? I know there are condoms like that -- the idea that one size fits all is not only ridiculous, but uncomfortable. Same deal with athletic cups -- I don’t even wear one anymore, just too dang distressing. I’d rather take the hit once a year or so, than deal with that daily pain. So my terrific idea about underwear, do you think Hanes or Fruit would be interested? I need an agent or a manager, to help me make these contacts. It’s a great marketing idea. Cuz there’s so much concern, apparently, among so many men about the size of their packages. If you have a woman who’s committed to you, then the only reason to think about your unit’s size is, what other guys think about it. Seems a little immature, not to mention gay. But human nature being what it is, I’d exploit that flaw and make a million -- maybe two. Hane’s Magnum! Watermelon of the Loom. Well, not watermelon -- hyperbole is cheap. Grapes and bananas are obvious. Pear? Guys would buy it for the label, like Gucci, regardless of fit. Yeah, that’s right baby, my unit is huge! Something you shouldn’t lie about, though, to a woman you hope to be intimate with. Be honest, or at least circumspect. I know someone who said he was perfectly proportioned. But who’s to say what that is? I think my proportions are right, but I’ve always thought that whatever I have, that’s the right way to be. Blond, blue eyes, tall, American … optimal. With public attributes we can take averages, but yer unit is like yer IQ -- sort of private. Numbers that tell you your worth. Like income. Well, something has to tell you your worth. What a world.
Do you think such trivial talk is inappropriate? -- all this blather about units? You have failed to discern my meaning. It was illustrative, allusive of my previous point. Please, attempt to follow along. If I have no close friends, no intimates, with whom is it safe to have frivolous, vulnerable conversations? You come to these pages to be edified -- I have never disappointed your diligent efforts. I do not know you, you have no idea as to who I really am -- yet I give you so much, on so many levels. Sometimes, when I dare to think of it, I am frightened by the thought that I might be understood, not fully, but sufficiently. Artfulness, and humor, and misdirection, and multiple meanings -- without which there is only direct contact. Intimacy is vulnerability, and what is childhood for, but to teach us terror. What if, in the end, we are measured, and rejected. What if that happened, already. All of life, then, is post-traumatic stress disorder.
I’ve finally noticed that my left hip is actually inflamed, visibly swollen and sharply painful to the touch. And the right glute thing may be linked to the right spinal erector, which is palpably hard and distended, compared to the left. Clues! I’ve spent this particular life alienate from my flesh, so it takes a long time to notice such things. Made it easy to be vegetarian, though. The stretching seems to be managing the issue, can’t say curing, yet, and I’ve been able to roll a little, bjj. I think aspirin is still necessary. Profoundly troubled by my bjj game. I present no threat. It’s all about not getting submitted. In other words, time-wasting. World’s worst brown belt. World’s best blue belt. And I’ve lost ten pounds. Troubling. I have serious mental issues, that leave me exhausted and vitiated, and it’s hard to workout. I need a coach. Too bad my son is so far away. Who will save me from this body of death.
I have friends, good friends.