So, death. And love. And sex.

I’m not afraid of death. Sure, it’s an end. I won’t be, anymore. I won’t write anymore

(stop clapping). I won’t breathe anymore. I won’t talk to you anymore (don’t party, yet).

I won’t be, anymore. NOT here, anyway.

Yeah, I believe in an afterlife. That’s the only fear. I don’t want to go to Hell. I’ve

had . . . visions of what await me there. I know what I’ve done. I know where I was wrong.

I know where I am wrong. I know the price I must pay. But I don’t fear dying.

In the past six months I’ve gone through some changes. Like that Black Sabbath song, which

I like a lot, and has been a theme for my life often enough. I’ve got a flaming heart.

Blah blah blah. Anyway, death is not something that I fear. I’ve taunted it, somewhat.

In the past six months I haven’t cared much for living. I’ve had little to look forward to.

(I hate ending sentences with prepositions, but . . .) I live with my parents. Blah. I

have a job in a factory, so it goes nowhere. Blah. I just got a new(ish) car. Blah. What

am I going to do next? Maybe I’ll get my own home. Alone. Then what? So, no prospects.

I’m too creepy to keep a full-time girlfriend. And that’s what I want, really. I don’t

want something to stick my cock into. That’s the for the next subject; now we’re about

death. Which I don’t fear.

I used to drink at the bar. I could tell my limit & I’d ween myself off for the night.

Sometimes the bartender would help me out in that. She was cool. The bar was cool. It was

a home to me. Then I’d go home . . . and sleep ‘til time to work. Sometimes, barely making

it. Driving like Hell was on my tail. Which it might’ve been. I didn’t care about that.

I wanted to drive fast, and I liked those moments when I didn’t care. I liked driving home

from the bar when I’d had more than I should have. Maybe I’d crash. Maybe I’d die. What

would happen? Of course, in my vanity, I’d wonder who would come to my funeral. What would

people say? What would they do? How would my death change their lives? Looking at how

other deaths have affected people . . . probably not much. Not mine. Not theirs. Not much

effect. Not death. So, why fear it? I drive fast. It’s fun. It’s dangerous. I don’t

fear crashish and dying.

I do fear surviving. Ever been in a crash? It sucks when you have to keep on going.

Injured? Sux. Car totaled? Sux. Insurance goes up? Sux. Hospital bills? Sux. Lost

work (less income). Sux. The pain? Sux. Could’a died. Then you wouldn’t have to worry

anymore, right?

Love?

Sex?
What’s sex? Grunting, sweating, thrusting . . . for what? Afterward . . . was it worth

it? What if it was with someone you didn’t care about? What was it all for? That single

moment of physical gratification? Lame. It’s not love. It’s fucking. And it’s sick.

It’s a sickness. Just going together for selfish needs.

What I want is something more. Something to fulfill me, and for me to fulfill. I don’t

just want someone to complete me; I want someone that I complete. It won’t be physical. It

won’t be sexual. It should be something more. Something deeper. And it may never happen.

But I don’t want sex. I don’t want to get laid. That’s boring. That’s over and done with

in a moment. There can be doubt and regret. I’m done with that. I’ve had that. It’s not

what I want. I want the real thing. I want the faerie-story ending. I believe that it’s

out there. It might be shining. It might be dark. But it’s magical. And I’m looking for

it, like I have been all my life. True, my eyes get distracted by shiny things before me,

but what I really, truly want . . . is so powerful that . . . I don’t know what to say . . .