This is my stream of consciousness - a self-serving archive of inspired thoughts and interesting things that I come across. I'm a capricious and self-loathing writer, teacher, adventurer, academic, dreamer, narcissist, playboy, idealist, realist, visionary, filmmaker, critic, actor, cynic, reformer, heathen, activist, romantic, political junkie, procrastinator, wanderluster, unforgiving dork, and all around excellent billiards player. Or something like that.
I see photos like this and realize that all I want to do is travel to places like this and write and travel and write and travel and write. Damn my middle class, debt-filled life.
When a gal says, “I’m, like, totally mature for my age, I’ve just been through sooooooooooo much in my life,” this can usually be translated as meaning the exact opposite.
Every straight man is entitled to five man crushes.
It’s science. Everybody knows it. Girls can unforgivably overly-admire as many female celebrities as they’d like, but guys, not so much. You know, we have to act all tough and pretend like we’re the only cool people in the world and nobody else is way cooler. Men are entitled to just five. I think it says that in the Bible or something. So, he’s my five heterosexual man crushes.
Why do people cheat? What is it about physical attractions that will let our love stray? Love never seems to be enough for anyone anymore. It’s such a sad thought to me.
It’s not “anymore.” It’s how it’s always been, we just seem to have a more warped romanticized view on what love is nowadays. Love isn’t some mystical, magical force that will bring balance to our life. It’s a choice, like any other. Love doesn’t make physical attraction to others simply disappear. It’s still there. The rest is a choice we have to make. Sometimes, though, we as human beings are weak and act on our selfish impulses without taking in account the consequences or who it will hurt and that’s when a guy sticks his dick in a woman that isn’t his wife or a woman trips and falls on top of some stud and the next thing she knows, they’re passionate going at it. It sucks, but it’s the reality of the situation. Many of us are already in control of these impulses and it seems so easy, but for others, for the weaker, it’s a daily struggle. It has little to do with love.
No guy wants to be in the heat of the moment, passionately tearing off a woman’s shirt, only to have to whisper softly into her ear, “Uh, can you get that for me?” Unless he can whisper it in Spanish. Then he’s sexy again.
Ellen, only last night, asked, ‘Daddy, when will we be rich?’ But I did not say to her what I know: ‘We will be rich soon, and you who handle poverty badly will handle riches equally badly.’ And that is true. In poverty she is envious. In riches she may be a snob. Money does not change the sickness, only the symptoms.
Those cigars, the fine clothes. I thought of good steaks, long rides up winding driveways that led to beautiful homes. Ease. Trips to Europe. Fine women. Were they that much more clever than I? The only difference was money and the desire to accumulate it. I’d do it too! I’d save my pennies. I’d get an idea, I’d spring a loan. I’d hire and fire. I’d keep whiskey in my desk drawer. I’d have a wife with size 40 breasts and an ass that would make the paperboy on the corner come in his pants when he saw it wobble. I’d cheat on her and she’d know it and keep silent in order to live in my house with my wealth. I’d fire men just to see the look of dismay on their faces.