Its Only A Matter Of Time...

"Fuck! You ruined my life!" An explosion followed the cry, which sounded a lot like some one discharged a shotgun and hit a television at close range. I sank to the ground, sitting propped up against the wall, with my legs pointed towards the monitor. Naked and dripping sweat, I stewed in my own special blend of negative, self-destructive emotions.

Tv's and computor monitors have the same cathode ray tubes, at least the non flat screen ones. That's why it sounded like a tv being hit with a shotgun -- monitors and tv's are very similar. The shotgun lay on the floor where I dropped it, double barrels still smoking. The monitor was still smoking too, surrounded with concentric circles of glass shards.

Luckily, I was far enough away from the point of impact that the glass hadn't embeded itself in my skin. I sat there, on the floor, regaining my breath, catching my composure. I sat there, relaxed. Calm. I was finally calm. Destruction can be such potent catharsis. The dissatisfaction that has wallowed in the pit of my stomach was gone. Scared, perhaps, or startled away by the noise and commotion. There wasn't anyone else there, but can an emotion discriminate between people and glass, smoke, spent shot and bright lights?

It would come slinking back, I was sure. Try to sneak in when I wasn't paying attention. When apathy and boredom had softened me up and left me reeling. Even though I knew it would return, I was glad I had done it. Killed it. Gotten it out of my life, for a little while any way. I was free! No more shackles, no more strange intangible pull. Free!

No more obsessive porn viewing. No more wasted life in front of the computer, surfing free escape-from-daily-life fantasy. Men with fourteen inch cocks, women who fucked the pizza guy, impossible stories of love, lust and happy ending all in one; all these phantastic elements combined into my drug of choice. I'd smoked pot during highschool. Done a lot of acid and a little speed, too. None of it compared to jacking off, though and I was always (and still am) scared of everything else.

Don't get me wrong, I love sex. I had a girlfriend for two years in highschool, as a pot head, acid head and tweaker. We sure fucked a lot. But I left for college, and she needed some one at home in her bed. So we split. I've had other girlfriends since then. None for quite as long, though. And none now. Thing is, it's really hard for me to meet people. Thrown together in a class, or in the dorms, or whatever, I do fine. But going out to bars? Better luck next time. Crowds aren't my thing, especially when they are crowds of strangers. I'll go out to people watch, but not to meet new friends.

And now, between jobs, finished with school, I had nothing to do. Nor any forced mingling to put me in contact with the next future ex. (I really am romantic, just jaded too -- it's an odd combination.) So I'd been spending my time sleeping, playing video games, cooking (my one productive hobby), and watching porn. I would have gone skateboarding, even though I'm both old and not very good, but it was raining. Rain not only destroys bearings and decks, but makes you fall. I'm both broke and suprisingly loath to pursue an activity that has me regularly picking myself up off of wet cement. At least I slept more than anything else. Jacking off came in a close second.

I needed to break the cycle, to overcome the sloth that had settled over me and stiffled my ambition. That mantle also inflamed my tendency towards the anti-social and misanthropic. It wasn't even fun for me to be around me. So I lost myself in internet fantasies of porn. Better than drugs. Legal, at least. But too much the same to be a real alternative. I needed to get clean, to ditch my stash. So I blew up my monitor. Shot it dead. Vigilante justice: the pusher gets shot, the junkie gets help.

And so I sit here on my floor, naked, sweaty. The monkey is off my back, lying dead in a puddle of its own glass. Wondering what to do next, I know I'll have time to decide. So I just relax, enjoying the post sol-ital bliss. I've coined a new genre of words, I jack off so much. Coital is prefaced by co, which means with or together. Replace it with sol, for solo. Sounds much more clinical that jacking off. I wasn't a reprobate, I just enjoyed sol-pulation in my free time.

It wasn't like I am ugly, or anything. Skinny, but my muscles were defined. Average height, blonde hair and blue eyes made me date-able. And even though I tried my best to become stupid through senseless chemical abuse, I am intellectually superior to a great many people. No genius, but smart.

I sat there, these thoughts streaming through my head, babbling and churning, drowing themselves out and slipping through my fingers. I'm a good listener, generally. If only because I am a bit introverted and shy, I let others do the talking. But all those thoughts in my head seemed instead to fly over my head. Leave it for later: my first coherent thought. So I got off my ass, slowly regained my feet, muscles streching and groaning and went off to take a shower.

I hopped in, metaphorically speaking (that's dangerous: you could really hurt yourself doing that), and soaped up. The hot water felt great. I washed myself, being gentle with my overworked, red and slightly chaffed penis, and enjoyed the relaxing spray. Thoughts chugged through my brain, leading me down a track of reasoning. The locamotive pointed out that my problem was using -- but it was the pleasure of sex, not of drugs. The train trundled through my head, the caboose summing up: can you cure yourself of lust?; is it really an option to swear off sex?; nothing is ever easy. Such insight comming from the quaint red brake car. It was right though. I'm not one who can use just a little. It always grows into more and more, until I'm sick enough to give it up.

But I'm not ready to swear off sex. Women are part of what makes life worth living, especially the intelligent, sensual and sexy ones. Throw in character/ maturity and my dreams are realized. Only thing missing is that spark, romance, love. Considering how much I jack off fantasizing about women I don't know, fidelity is suprisingly important to me. Maybe that's it. I'll be true to my own fantasies, to my own life. No more internet porn, no more porn at all. I'm really not interested if I have to pay anyway.

I'll go out to a show, try to meet a cute punk rock chick to love and lust after. Tattoos, piercings, and that whole marginalized, individualist consciousness is quite attractive. Get me some of that. But I'm not one to put myself forward, or like those that I meet if I did. So it stays a fantasy, I stay lonely. The boredom encroaches, bringing despair and apathy in its wake. They invite cynosism and throw a party. And I retreat away from the crowd of strangers I've known so long, that continually elbow me out of my own emotional dwelling, to escape into something, anything.... Maybe I'll get a new monitor.