Tag: Happiness

tf is narcissism?

“Narcissistic personality disorder” is HOT right now. I think it’s surpassed “borderline personality disorder” as the cool thing to have.

In all seriousness though, I think there’s been a turn in the psychological community. “Pop psychology” has turned disorders into badges of honor, or an identity, to the point where individuals no longer concern themselves with improvement and instead use their “disorder” as an excuse to continue shitty behavior then expect society to deal with it.

Of course, I’m speaking from personal experience. Obviously I’m an insane person that’s maladapted to society and require the services of doctors and therapists to help me. That has been the case since I was a teenager. When I first started seeking medical attention for my behavioral ailments, psychiatrists and therapists were in a mad dash to “diagnose” me into a neat category. Now, 93 years later, they don’t give a shit about that. It doesn’t matter. They just want to make sure that I don’t jump into traffic whenever I’m out in the public. That’s the important thing.

Anyways, personal anecdote aside, I’m fascinated by narcissism and the nature of mental disorders. I won’t get into that because it’s a lot of armchair philosophizing on my part, but is the prevalence of “narcissism” and “narcissistic personality disorder” a reflection of societal shifts?

I reckon that “narcissism” and “narcissistic personality disorder” are not synonymous, but I do think they share a link with the rise of radical individualism and consumer culture.

I’m not a psychologist. Thank god. But I can say with near certainty that I’ve been blessed with having not one, but two people very close to me have NPD. Crazy people have a tendency to attract other crazy people. Go figure. (I may say more about this at another time)

One was charismatic and the other a complete fucking moron, but they shared this commonality: when most people have an interaction with somebody, say someone they just met, all sorts of assumptions are being made. Most of these assumptions, by both parties, are not expressed and are usually rationalized as being just ASSUMPTIONS. Nothing more. There’s a wall of rationality between perception and reality, and most people are good at distinguishing between the two. A narcissist, at least the ones I’ve met, don’t have that ability.

The narcissist’s perceptions get projected onto the reality at hand, and they’re not able to tell where their emotions end and where objective reality begins. In my instances, both individuals reacted harshly against being labeled a liar. It was obvious that they had difficulty with the truth, but in their mind, they weren’t lying.

What this has to do with society at large, I don’t know. It’s merely conjecture on my part.

No I will not explain further.

“joseph campbell”

I was watching Bart Ehrman debate some dude, forgot who, and he mentioned the non-canonical early Christian text, Apocalypse of Peter (never read it). The text describes heaven and hell, with descriptions of hell being far more creative than those of heaven. Point being, as Ehrman explains (paraphrasing): “there are only so many ways to describe eternal bliss”, while the imagination on eternal damnation knows no bounds.

It’s not really a revolutionary observation, I know, but that’s true in all our storytelling: “heaven” is a place of temporary stability before “hell” comes along and propels the plot forward. Therefore much of the creative energy behind a story lies in the “hell” of it all.

In other words, story is conflict.

But I think Ehrman’s statement is also a reflection on the nature of language. I’ve always found that imaginative descriptions of dread, anger, depression, anxiety, etc. to be far more creative and rewarding than depictions of bliss. Heaven, beauty, bliss, etc lie in the realm of the sublime, and therefore transcend the possibilities of language.

However, that might just be a reflection of my own deranged mind.

Whatever dude, shit’s boring.

just one more thing..

So I was eating a bag of skittles when the phone rang.

“What do you want?” I asked.

The woman over the phone spoke. “Hi, this is Arianna. We talked last week. Just want to know that I’ve been fantasizing about you. I’m really, REALLY horny. I want to come over, sit you down, take you in my mouth then ride you as you slide in and out. I want to taste you. I want to feel you inside me. Just the thought of your cock makes me quiver with excitement. Please let me come over. Please PLEASE have your way with me.”

“Sorry, watching Columbo,” I said. Then hung up.

update

Bad news: the blog’s gone downhill and I’m powerless to do anything about it.

Good news: I’ve updated the website format.

As for the quality of content, sorry. I’ve been going through writer’s block since the beginning of September. Don’t know what to do about it. I’m gonna write till something hits. Maybe a change in format will polish this turd up.

So the shit posts will keep flowing. Oh well 🤷‍♂️

hott 70s dudes

Of course Burt Reynolds was the epitome of rockin 70s bods. But the decade was littered with dudes with underrated man bods in all their hairy glory.

So here’s a shoutout to a few of my favorites

Harvey Keitel

Keitel’s body is probably the most underrated bod in all of cinema history. Low key jacked.

Martin Sheen

Don’t deny it. You had a lady boner when you saw Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now.

Roy Scheider

Ladies (or men), this is what I look like with my shirt off.

Kris Kristofferson

Hot! (Barbara Streisand looks good too)

Sean Connery

Some might say 60s or 1983 Sean Connery was when he was in peak physical form. I disagree. It was in 1971.

love at first sight

Some jackass was pounding on my door at 10:30 in the morning. I opened up and a man stuck out his hand.

“I’m Gay,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Gayson Peters. I’m your new neighbor across the street.”

He was wearing an orange button up with khaki cargos and socks pulled all the way up to his knees.

“What do you want from me?” I asked. “Some money?”

“No. I’m inviting you to a barbecue that I’m having this afternoon.”

“Eh, I’m hungover,” I said. “Can’t make it”

“That’s okay, I’ll be serving free alcohol. Just come over and get drunk again.”

“I’ll see you this afternoon.”

I threw on a clean pair of pants (no underwear) and flipped my shirt inside out. I grabbed a bag of pretzels so that I didn’t look like a complete asshole for not bringing anything.

When I arrived, my new neighbor handed me a plate. “No thank you, Gayson,” I said, “I’m just here for the booze.”

“Please, call me Gay.”

I got really drunk. As I was hanging out in the backyard trying not to barf, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.

“Got a light sweetheart?” she asked.

I handed her my lighter. She was about 50 something. Blond hair. Definitely had a smoker’s voice.

“Have you known Gay for long?” she asked.

“Since this morning.”

“I’m his mom.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

I walked up to the hot tub and barfed my guts out. When I finished, I walked back to her.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “So you’re Gay’s mom. What’s that like?”

“He’s an asshole,” she replied. “Got any kids?”

“Probably.”

“How old are you?”

“I dunno. Somewhere between 28 and 74.”

She took one last drag from her cigarette then flicked it away. “Well this party is pretty lame,” she said. “Why don’t you come on over to my place and have some drinks? My name’s Lucinda.”

“Sure thing, Lucinda.”

Her apartment was a converted storage unit. It was littered with old Penthouse mags, newspapers, and an endless supply of glue. She stepped out of the shower and walked into the kitchen. In fact, the shower was in the kitchen.

“Sorry that my tits are flopping out,” Lucinda said. “I have no clean towels.”

“That’s okay. I haven’t had an erection in years. Too much prescription meds and internet pornography.”

She seemed to blow a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” she said. “I can’t have sex. Vag is all dried up.”

I poured a drink and raised a toast. “To my dead ass dick!” I said.

We sat down on the couch and I began flipping through the channels.

“Sorry,” Lucinda said. “But the only thing this TV picks up is Designing Women.”

I turned my head and looked deep into her eyes. “I love Designing Women,” I said.

There was some energy between us. We shared a moment.

When Major Dad came on, I had to take a shit. “Do you need any toilet paper?” she asked.

“Nope. Never used it.”

As I blew up the toilet behind paper thin walls, I though that I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.

“I clogged the toilet,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. It ain’t going nowhere.”

I sat back down on the couch. As we laughed at Gerald McRaney’s shenanigans, I reached out to hold her hand. She rested her head on my shoulder. Then she let out the most disgusting fart.

“I need to change my underwear,” she said.

It was the happiest night of my life.

THE END

Freaky deaky Saturday iii: let’s get this over with

The unsatisfying conclusion to my worst short story

“I’m driving,” Susan said as she grabbed the keys to my Porsche (or Lamborghini, Ferrari, or whatever it is that I drive). “Wear something skimpy.”

Susan, in my body, made me wear a short skirt. No panties. (As a reminder, I am in Susan’s body)

Susan pounded a pint of whisky as she drove like a maniac. She reached over the console to feel up my skirt.

“Where did you last see this warlock?” she asked.

“It was down this dark and dingy back alley.”

So we parked in the alleyway. As I got out of the car, a homeless man came up to me. “Hey baby,” he said, “mind if I take that pooter for a spin?”

Susan pulled out a .45. “Back off buddy,” she said. “She’s with me.”

“Jesus! I was just asking about the car!” the homeless man replied. Then he went back to shitting in a piss-stained corner.

“How did you find my .45?” I asked Susan.

“It was already in my jacket pocket,” she replied. “What are you, some kind of psycho?”

The warlock was on the other side of the dumpster. He was schooling some kids on a game of knucklebones.

“Scram kids,” Susan said.

“Fuck off old man,” one of them replied. “Don’t make me cut you open!”

Susan once again pulled out the .45 and fired a round into the air. One of the kids pulled a straight razor and held it to my throat.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” the kid said.

“Yes,” Susan replied. She then lowered the pistol and fired a shot between his eyes.

As the kid’s body fell to the ground, the others ran off. Susan grabbed me by the arm and held me close.

“Did that turn you on?” she asked.

It did. But I said nothing.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” the warlock asked. “That kid owed me $20.”

“Put us back into our own bodies,” Susan said.

“What? Are you high?” he replied.

“You’re the warlock that cursed me yesterday when I hit you with my car,” I said. “Now I’m in her body and she’s in mine!”

“Warlock? Sweetheart, I’m just a dirty homeless man that lives behind a dumpster and grifts kids out of money.”

Susan and I look at each other. “Then why didn’t you take the money when I offered it to you?” I asked.

“I dunno. I was probably high on MDMA or something. I get hit by cars all the time!”

Susan began pounding the whiskey again. “Welp, this was a waste of time,” she said. “Oh well, let’s go.”

“What are we gonna do about this dead body?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” the “warlock” said. “People die back here all the time. It’ll be fine.”

We got back in the car. The two of us sat in silence for a moment. “I guess we’re stuck in these bodies for the rest of our lives,” Susan said.

“I guess so.”

“Wanna go back to my place and fuck?”

“Sure,” I said. “But what’s with that gimp?”

THE END 🤷‍♂️