Jerk Off

Is there a connection between idealism, fruitless activity, and clarity?
I guess I’ll figure it out after I eat something and take another nap.

“…Most people channel their pain into God or masturbation or some dream of making it.” -John Lennon

Long ago, it just always seemed like an articulate argument could have the power to make objective truth prevail, until the realization that this was just masturbation. For a long time, life just got worse. Even before readings of Absurdism, deep down its never been a mystery that life is fucked-up. The real battle was always just accepting it, in a way that would permanently crush the blind path of idealism. Old habits truly die hard, so in order to eternally shatter the rose colored glasses, one must stop beating a dead horse toward the impossible boundries of some of their dreams, and stop jerking-off to them.

It would seem that those who unconditionally blow their load whenever the opportunity arises, don’t go very far, in fact we call them “jerk-offs.” A jerk-off never seems to realize that they are hiding from something, until they stop “jerking-off.” Of all things, what could make someone jerk-off more than persistently ignoring the grotesque, immediate  impossibility of facts catching on? However it becomes apparent that the universal avoidance of reason is actually no reason to hide, as long as you remember to jerk-off all over it. After all, life is kind of like a giant “circle-jerk,” and we seem destined to reflect that, even in spite of its apparent ridiculousness. However, it seems that men mainly follow one of two ways: escaping via the tangible avenues of their dreams, or blindly using their dick to escape.

So instead of being a Hannibal Lecter in training, redirect the unbridled aim of these Caligula-like tendencies, toward “the machine,” instead of spurting rage onto the “village bicycle,” or bathroom floor. The noise of the concrete jungle can’t help but be suspended by a skirmish with impartial mockery, especially with the aid of concentrated focus, which is impossible if one cant hang on to their spunk. Marcus Aurelius once wrote “Death smiles at us all, but all a man can do is smile back.” Which probably means that acknowledging the ridiculous “catch twenty-two” that we call “life” and using it as fodder for laughter has a more lasting effect than shooting-one-off in the toilet, or a homie’s significant-other. The more valuable disciplines appear much more swiftly when one is preoccupied with the practice of blowing a metaphorical load on the bogus regulations that bond the monumentally fucked-up world in which we reluctantly reside, instead of blowing a real one allover a keyboard, or extramarital back-tat.

Which brings me to the most valuable discipline; fun. Instead of being a complete creature of hopeful habit, jettison the excess hope into busting a fat, metaphorical nut into the cold, black heart of the collective nightmare that bore us, instead of mindlessly retreating towards the conditioner or the nearest STD. Since all addictions are biologically related to the reward-center that makes us want to fuck, the root of “control” clearly is in our pants, or rather outside of them. You may be thinking that eating is an equal part of the same innate programming, yet even hunger is harder to control after cleaning the pipes. Action is a friend to knowledge, and together they equal happiness, but not if they are indiscriminately surrendering their spirit, memory, dopamine and testosterone. If it takes a week for testosterone to reach peak levels, it would make sense that frivolous coming is the root of constricting our scope of opportunity, rather than expanding its range and quality.

So take the first step, and raise all standards high of above the level of a crusty, mechanical “jerk off.” Save the misdirected idealism for Sunday mass or for your addiction of choice, and be idealistic about yourself instead. Cut-loose and embrace the alleviating metaphor of glibly cranking-one-out all over the self-made, rotating hard-on that we eternally inhabit. Society was engineered by egotistical dicks who rattle other men until they feel the need to hide inside of their own dicks, which turns them into a pussy. Instead of being unwittingly raped until society disintegrates you into a cunt-like dick-wannabe, do what assholes do, and just say “fuck it,” rather than allowing it to fuck you until you fuck yourself. “Assholes” are immune to such trends, and cease to bleed when “The Man” habitually force-fucks them, because they remain focused enough to understand when to say “yes” to the world, and when to jerk off all over it.