I was reading in the library and kept getting distracted by my brain. Let’s see what kind of crap I wrote down…
Does most philosophy boil down to a whole bunch of guys locked in a p3nis match? It seems like all they do is come up with ‘reasonable justification’ that their four-inch prick is really a foot-long rod of desire. Philosophers will go to any length to argue the ruler out the game to keep their truths ambiguous and vague. They tell you how big it is and refuse to show you.
Ever wonder why there are very few female philosophers? Women really have better things to do. God bless them.
The problem with starting an intellectual magazine… all the topics come from within the writers, not from without. There would be little noticeable consistency to the casual reader. No set topics, no subjects, no focus, no direction. The writer for last month’s urban spelunking feature may have three columns about love, rain and p3nises this month. You would need readers that appreciate this randomness, and writers that can lay down words with great talent to keep the quality satisfying.
Love is not an independent thing to look for, but the physical actualization of the human passion for life. It makes the soul tactile. You can wrap your fingers around existence and embrace it, twirl life around on your tongue.
If you don’t love life you cannot love a person. Thus, loving another person is not the exclusive factor for loving life. Getting in a relationship will not gloss over problems that you carry with you. You must have the zest for life, the vigor, the mighty yawp.
Ideally your partner is a condensation of your entire vision of the world into human form. They resonate in your world. Another person can connect you fully with your reality while simultaneously pulling you into their own.
Here’s the first page of my first book, of which I now have about ten ‘first books’ being planned:
There is nothing romantic about my ascension. I was raised by affluent, caring parents. I attended public schools. I graduated college with honors, bought a house and got an accounting job.
There was no grinding poverty, no drug abuse, no adverse conditions from which to rise above. It was a straight shot to the center pin. A life of sweethearts and Novocain. When people hear my story they hide their disgust.
I am a nice man. I am a cruel man. I hate myself for it.
And thus begins the story of Walter Cromwell.