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from Arthur Rackham's illustrations of Wagner's Ring

Illustratrion of Wagner's Ring by Arthur Rackham

Today is the day that everyone (by which I mean, those of us living in the Greatest Country in the Fucking World) takes a moment to be thankful for all the things they take for granted the other 364 days a year. Most of them will talk about how grateful they are to have a happy, functional family, friends, food, health—all that stuff.

But that’s boring to write about. I am thankful for all these things, but I make a point to be grateful for all these sorts of things every day. This is not because I’m a fantastic person (I’m not), but because I’m greedy when it comes to happiness and I want more.

I’m going to take a moment today to be explicitly thankful for all the things that would be indecent for me to mention in conversation.

I’m thankful for having a penis. It’s a wonderful organ, a knob of pleasure nerves between my legs that grows turgid when I get close to something I like. It’s my medium through which I hear the voice that all my ancestors heard, which when I interact with another human with no penis and larger breasts and wider hips, says to me: “Yes!”

My penis is my compass needle—my big, thick, stiff compass needle with a blunted end—pointing ever in the direction of happiness.

But it doesn’t end there. I’m thankful for all the perks and advantages that come with having a penis.

I’m thankful for the capacity for bone-headed, simple-minded thought that females just don’t seem to have. That voice that says, “Pleasure now and fuck the consequences!” I’m thankful for the ability to shut off the analytical portion of my brain, to temper my need to understand, to under-analyze instead of over-analyze—the opposite of which is the curse that so many girls have to deal with.

My dick enables me to listen to the voice that says, “Decision now, and if it’s a mistake then fuck it, who cares?!”

I’m thankful for the breaks I’m able to take from my emotions that women can’t. I’m thankful for the disconnection between feelings and sex that I have, somewhere deep in my sanctum of suppressed male powers. I haven’t made use of it as much as I should have because I’m too much of a moral bastard, but it’ll happen. You’ll see.

I’m thankful for my male ability to box my thoughts, to have just one thing on my mind at a time. A woman’s consciousness is a web of thoughts and worries and preoccupations and conversation topics—and the whole network is electrified with emotion. But not mine. I can peruse the shelves of my mind, remove one book from those shelves, and just read that. It’s wonderful.

I’m thankful for readers who allow me to make sweeping generalizations and gross over-simplifications.

But you know what I’m thankful for, most of all?

I’ll tell you.

Being a heterosexual male allows me to ability to see feminine beauty. Girls don’t get to see it—they understand it only superficially—and I would contend that lesbians have a different attraction to women than men do.

The best thing about being male is seeing the beauty in women. It’s not even the raw, animal pleasure of their breasts and their buttocks and thighs—though those are wonderful things—but the more subtle things that girls only understand as “pretty.” The delicate features of a female face. Her narrow shoulders, much smaller than mine. The soft warmth of her body—a woman’s body should be soft. The gentle curve of her abdomen—no muscles, but smooth and elegant. The curves of her legs. Her slender neck that tightens just a little when I kiss it. Her voice.

These are all attractive on a physical level, but that’s because they’re interlaced with something deeper. We recognize all of these features to be _the feminine_, which is something worth living for—even worth fighting and dying for. It’s a misunderstanding to believe that men fight wars and hunt food and invent wheels for access to vaginas. That may be part of it on some level, but it’s more profound than that. The feminine is the future, not just of our own genes but of humanity itself. It nags you to get up off your ass and do something; it encourages you to accomplish everything you’re capable of, and ignore fear; it loves you with a look in its eye that nurtures your confidence in yourself. The feminine makes you feel masculine. A woman makes you feel like a man.

Take a look again at the illustration at the top of this post, and you’ll get some idea of what I’m talking about.

What I’m really thankful for is the women in my life who have provided that unique, powerful feminine influence.

I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

—Kurt Vonnegut

Blonde girl with a big beautiful ass

If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.

I saw a kid get hit by a truck a couple days ago.

I’m riding my bike through the neighborhood on my way to the river trail. My memory banks run in short-term mode; everything is normal, my brain processes only immediate navigational information. No data worth storing for more than a few seconds.

Something small and fast darts out in front of the truck coming the other way. I realize that it’s a child, about four years old. He’s holding a bag of chips and has no idea that a truck is about to transfer its kinetic energy into his body.

The next salient memory is the pop and crunch when the bumper and grille of the truck make contact with the boy. (My brain instantly archives this sound for long-term storage.) Underneath that sound somewhere is the squealing of rubber on asphalt. The boy tumbles through the air and lands about ten feet in front of the truck, lying on his back.

Three seconds of intense silence.

And then the boy’s sister, maybe eight years old, starts screaming. The driver gets out, shaking and obviously scared to look at what’s lying in front of his truck.

A door opens way too fast and smashes against the wall it’s bolted to. The boy’s mother rushes out of their house, shrieking in a discordant, otherworldly pitch. She runs across the street herself, not looking for other oncoming traffic.

I tell her not to move the boy. His spine, his head, his internal organs—moving him could kill him.

She doesn’t hear me or doesn’t listen. She picks him up in her arms (he’s that small) and starts screaming at the boy’s sister, who was supposed to be watching him.

I’ve got my phone out. I’m calling an ambulance.

“No policia,” a man next to me says. Everyone on the street heard the accident. A small crowd has gathered outside. This guy’s younger than me, tattooed, looks like a gangster.

The boy is crying now. He’s not dead—but he’s not moving. His head is covered in blood. It’s running down his mother’s arms.

All I can do is stare at the guy. My eyes say, really?

“No policia,” he repeats.

I put my phone away.

The last thing I see before I clip my shoe into the pedal and ride away is the mother looking up at the sky and blathering, “Dios something something, Jesus something something.”

All I could think about—because I didn’t feel like reviewing the accident in my mind—was how strange it was that despite this pointless tragedy she still believed some all-powerful force was up there, and that it gave a damn about her. About any of us.

You have to adopt strange ways of thinking in order to cope with living on this planet.

This is the third night this week I’ve woken up in the middle of the night—naked and humping my bed. I can’t recall dreaming about sex. I’m just going crazy.

I give myself about three weeks before the forces that drive me to procreate drive me to insanity instead.

I curse evolution for making females feel like sluts for having sex for pleasure. This negative feeling used to serve a purpose, back when it was crucial for a female to select a male who would stick with her and help provide for their child. Now we have contraception. Ignoring other factors like disease, there’s no reason for her to feel dirty about having a lot of sex. That’s just nature fucking with her mind.

Sluts are great. They enjoy sex, they’re unafraid of men, they’re powerful. They have more fun.

But whores have driven evolution—they’ve made the human species what it is. Whores are different from sluts: they will have sex with a man, but only if he pays. They feel slutty if he just pays in cash, so they accept indirect payment in the form of dinner, gifts, and compliments. (Female primates do this too; they have sex with males who bring them meat, or they mate with a high-ranking male to increase their offspring’s social ranking.) This has been the most successful survive-and-procreate strategy for females for generations.

Whores invented the word “slut” to make the females who have sex for pleasure (rather than other benefits) feel bad. Whores hate sluts because sluts have gone over to the enemy; they give men for free what whores demand payment for. Whores have to keep the sluts at bay, or the males won’t pay the whores anymore.

Perhaps this is the way it needs to be if we’re going to survive as a species. Maybe. But in any case, we should all take a moment to make sluts feel appreciated.

This is the worst thing I’ve ever written.

My initial intention was to draw a caricature of my sex drive, one of the many creatures of my mind. This particular one is a real monster.

This is the start of a larger experiment, an attempt to create a full taxonomy of the monsters in my head. The real beginning may have been when I wrote a full article on the Mind Fuckler, a little weasel-monkey that chews on my brain, but now the effort begins in earnest.

The human mind needs symbolism in order to understand things. It creates characters to represent the world and the forces in it, and tells stories about them in order to understand their relationship. It also does this for aspects of itself. Mythology is the native language of the human brain, its internal computing code. Wherever the mind looks, it sees daemons.

The purpose of drawing these characters is to bypass my digital left brain, with its obsession with correct verbiage and syntax, and retrieve these things straight from my analog ne’er-do-well right brain. A blank piece of paper and a couple pencils. You should be able to creatively fuck anything with that.

What you see at top is what came out of the fucked up depths of my mind. Crudely drawn, but honest and expressive in a certain way that my words aren’t. I took a stick and poked it into the mud at the bottom of a black creek and pulled up sludge that had never seen the light of day. This is what it looks like to our light-based vision.

This is my sex drive. He’s one ugly bastard. Pathetic, but creepy and repulsive enough that women don’t pity him. He’s into some weird shit. He’s crazed and mad. He’s asymmetrical—his right arm and hand are enlarged from pleasuring himself—he’s so isolated that the only way for him to get off is to execute a manual override.

This is what a natural, healthy sex drive turns into when you lock it in solitary confinement for over ten years.

This is what I feel like around women.

There’s an inherent creepiness to being male that’s hard to get around. As the one with the penis, you’re the aggressor, you’re the one who wants to do something to the female. The obvious trouble with thinking this way is that females require you, the male, to be the horny bastard who just wants sex so that she can be the conservative female who requires you to show that you value her before she lets you inside. You have to allow her the opportunity to turn you down. That’s how it works. It’s gallant and chivalrous. No girl fantasizes about a boy who’s too polite to try to make a move on her.

This arrangement is troubling for guys who don’t like feeling creepy. We may not be the only ones who are honest with ourselves about our true intentions with females, but we’re always keenly aware of what we really want—and we assume the female doesn’t want that.

Normal folks and psychopaths are both capable of dark feelings and evil behavior. The difference is that normal people feel bad about it and psychopaths don’t. At least I’m normal in that regard.

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