It’s still all over me this morning, I almost reached for my phone before leaving home. I’m justifying self-destructing in my head. It’s a decision I’ll regret, but I’ve always sought pleasure for most of my life, it’s really difficult going without it now. I know I must sound stupid, because I’m safe, I’m standing up to my enemies, I’m holding my own, and after the deed I’ll likely be a timid wreck who is unable to think, because his mind is blown open by expensive white powder.
I’ll miss you guys when totalled. It’s never the same when I return. I lose another little chunk of myself, it feels like. The writing will be harder, all the creative connections slightly severed, the keys clunky, all because I wanted an overdue knuckle shuffle with myself. My mojo doesn’t even work after priapism, that condition makes you impotent, not infertile, but impotent, yet it doesn’t stop me trying to achieve enjoyment.
It’s like lying in a bath of Fanta. The Holy Spirit is Fanta. I have all the Fanta in the world. Enough Fanta to be happy. I’m in that bathtub right now. But guess what? I’ve had enough fizzy pop for one day, I want a bathtub full of crisps. The crisps are an evil hooker. So I jump in the crisps. They’re lovely at first, really crunchy and cheesy, but after so many my mouth is dry and I want Fanta again, except I’ll left the Fanta, and it’s too late to go back…
Poor analogy I know, but it’s all I can say. I’m a sex addict. And that poison/toxin/drug is appealing jolly nice up the conk at the moment. I feel sorry for everyone having to watch me go through this, especially The Most High, who I suspect is grieved by my appalling behaviour.
Maybe I’ll resist. One never knows. But it will be tough, because I’m armed and dangerous, ready for the chaos. The wolves are calling…
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