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DISCLAIMER: This site contains material of an adult nature, and should not be viewed by anyone that is likely to complain, because I probably don't want to hear it, and if you catch me on a bad day there is a good chance you'll be crying into your pillow later that same day. Also, I like run-on sentences.
February 22, 2015
The past few things I've written were pretty dark. I'd love to report that I'm fine, that all is well...but I'm not. That doesn't mean I'm incapable of providing quality entertainment, though.
|Wreckin' the pussy at a theater near you...
All I've undergone, I will keep on...
February 21, 2015
Ordinarily, when I start writing something here, it's something I've thought about quite a bit. I don't just sit down and start spewing forth the contents of my brain. I prefer to be focused. Controlled. Planned out. Spontaneity isn't my "thing".
But, today is different. Today I'm working without a net. This should be very train wreck-ish.
In the past 2 weeks, I have experienced:
- The death of a beloved dog who had been with me for 13 years, over 1/4 of my life
- The death of one of my best friend's mother, whom I have known since 2nd grade
- The renewal of wedding vows between a dying man and his loving wife
- my own total meltdown in trying to process all of this against the backdrop of my own emotional events
In short, I flipped the switch in the nick of fucking time. Even so, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel any of the sting of those events. But, what I mostly felt was cold and detached from actual feelings. It was like watching someone else feel them. Psychologists might liken it to a dissociative episode, but hey, whatever coping mechanism works, right?
All my life, every relationship I've ever been in, I've been required to be the "strong" one. Too many people rely on me. I came to view feeling anything as a liability. Even in my divorce, I was so busy surviving, on ensuring that my daughter was safe, I never got to be anything but the "strong" one. I never, ever, properly mourned the death of that relationship.
By the time I could relax, the feelings I should have felt were just faded memories.
My daughter got to be there at the end of our dog's life. It was her choice. She got to say goodbye, and she stayed through the whole process, and it broke my heart to see the grief in her. But, in front of her, with her, I had to be the "strong" one. I believe kids need to see their parents in that light, until they're old enough to figure out on their own that their parents aren't superhuman. She'll figure out one day that I'm only human. Just not that day. Hopefully, not any day soon.
I felt the pain of my dog's passing, but I didn't let it show. I had already said my goodbyes in private, and I had already mourned the loss while I was alone with my other dog. I can be strong in public, but a complete mess when I am alone. And, I spend way too much time alone.
I went to see my friend's mother in hospice, before she passed. I hate hospitals. To me, they represent places of great pain and loss. I remember being with my aunt and my paternal grandmother in their hospital rooms when they passed away. I remember that feeling, and I associate it with hospitals, and I hate them. I hate them in a completely unrealistic and stupid way, and I hate going inside of them.
But, you do things for your friends that you wouldn't otherwise do. You take risks, you make yourself vulnerable, you face fears. It was important that I be there. She was a big part of my life, growing up between our two houses. I have a thousand memories of her that I will always carry with me, and none of them will be from that hospital room.
By the time I got to the wedding vow ceremony, on Valentine's Day no less, I was almost completely incapable of feeling. I learned the song I was supposed to play, and I remember playing it. I remember when my friend and his wife said their vows, they were both crying. I remember the audience was crying, too. "In sickness and in health", and "Till death do us part" take on special significance when one of the people is terminally ill with cancer.
I remember all of that, but it was like I wasn't completely there. Like I was watching it from somewhere else. Or hearing about it second hand.
I'm sitting at the reception, alone in a crowded room, and I feel a million miles away. I took out my phone, not even really thinking about it, and I flipped to a picture of the Impossible Girl. She sent me quite possibly the most idiotic selfie I've ever seen, so of course I made it the default for her contact entry.
I look at her goofy face, and I remember the things she's told me, the things she's said, and for just a moment, I'm back in the room. I'm not detached, I'm anchored in the here and now, and I realize it's her. This is what she does to me.
And it's fucking terrifying.
The funeral for my friend's mother wasn't so bad, but I was so incapable of feeling at that point, I don't know if it was just my imagination or not.
So, today, it all caught up to me.
I've been trying to be okay ever since the funeral earlier in the week. I thought if I could just make it past that, if I could just hold it together another day, maybe 2, that I would be okay. I want to be okay. I want to be me again, not this disapassionate version of me who can view the world through a filter of numbness.
The Impossible Girl was there for me. She wanted to help me get out of my head, get distracted, go somewhere, do something, do anything. And, I wanted that, too. I wanted to be okay, after all. I want to be me again.
I'm broken. I don't know how to glue the pieces back together, and I don't think anyone at the moment can help with that.
It started with something stupid. These things always do. I bought a new TV (as predicted), and it's awesome but it has a manufacturing defect. I contacted the manufacturer, tried to fix it through resetting the TV, and took about a dozen pictures of the defect to provide them with evidence, and they said a technician would get back with me in 2 to 3 business days.
Yesterday was one week since I received that bullshit response. So, I sent a nice email requesting a status update, and I thought I was okay. But, a crack appeared. I didn't notice it. You never do, at first. It always starts small, and then it grows, and as it grows, every thing that comes into contact with it just causes that much more destruction.
I wanted to be okay, though. People who are okay, they don't lose their shit over things like this. I'm okay. I want to be okay.
My ex contacted me last night, to tell me she thought it would be all right if we go ahead and get my daughter her first cellphone for her 11th birthday this coming Sunday. It makes sense at this point in her life, and I support the idea, and even though I had everything already in place to make it happen, she wanted to do it herself.
I understand why. She wants, for a change, to be the hero parent. I'm always the one that can get my daughter the things she wants and asks for, so it's fine, I'll let her have this one. To me this isn't a competition, but if it is to her, then fine, let the wookiee win.
I was actually impressed that my ex had put thought into this topic, and had reasoned out why it made sense, and come to this conclusion on her own. But, then I found out how she ACTUALLY made this decision. And, the crack grew worse.
She's one of those people who makes decisions by "Facebook Committee", as I call it. That's where you surrender your free will, and leave your actions up to the consensus of the fucking morons who have NEVER had more than a couple of brain cells to rub together, and whose advice has historically been worth about a handful of shit and some Chuck E. Cheese game tokens.
If I were okay, it wouldn't bother me. If I were okay, I wouldn't really care. I want to be okay. I wanted to be okay.
I'm not okay.
But, I kept moving forward with my night, these cracks notwithstanding, and I was carrying on a conversation with Impossible Girl about our plans for tonight, for a Friday night dinner and shopping expedition.
She's my friend. She knows me better than I care to admit. She understands me on a level that scares the shit out of me. To the extent that I am capable, I love her. In a different world, maybe we would be a couple, but not this world. In this world, that isn't possible. Not now, maybe not ever. I understand the reasons for that, and I've accepted it, even though a part of me will always wish it could be different.
If I were okay, that wouldn't bother me. If I were okay, I wouldn't really care. I want to be okay. I wanted to be okay.
But, I'm not okay.
I knew our night out wasn't a date. I even made reference to needing to go to sleep soon so at least one of us would be well rested for our "date" Friday night. If it had been something I said in person, I would have made the 'air quotes' motion, to emphasize that I was using the word facetiously.
It's hard to communicate via text, because the nuance of the language is lost. The intent. The tone. She sent me an innocuous, understandable message, but because of the cracks...
"It's not a date"
Even though you can't convey tone in a text, it hit me like a wave of negativity. I know I was the source of that negative energy, and if I were okay, it wouldn't bother me. If I were okay, I wouldn't care, I wouldn't read it that way, it would be fine, and we would laugh about it.
But, I'm not okay.
From that tiny crack there grew a gaping broken hole, and suddenly that part of my brain that takes offense at everything in the world around me was loose, and that other Chimpuat, filled with anger, came out of hiding to push the world away and protect me.
"How dare you. Not a date? As if there is something so wrong with me, that of COURSE it's not a date? I am fucking Chimpuat, awesome and unique, why wouldn't someone want to go on a date with me? FUCK EVERYONE!"
Dark Chimpuat, once he's got the microphone, well...he's pretty fucked up. If I were okay, he wouldn't bother me. If I were okay, he wouldn't be out of his box, trying to shield me from everyone, everything, and myself.
But, I'm not okay.
I'm not prone to anger. I'm not 'that guy'. I don't get angry, and on those rare occasions in the past when I did, it was never an outburst. A calm would come over me, and my voice would get steady and low, and I would calmly and logically fuck your world up with my anger. But, this wasn't like that.
This didn't make sense. I love this girl, I should never get angry at something she said, not something that is a true statement and not meant in any way to be malicious or hurtful. If I were okay...
...but I'm not.
That anger, it spilled over, and the cracks that had formed and the suppressed and ignored anger I felt towards my ex and towards Sharp Electronics, it just fed on itself. I tried to go to bed, tried to sleep, but he wouldn't really let me. That part of me, it turned that shit over and over in my head until by the time I got out of bed this morning, I was well and truly angry at the whole fucking world.
I thought I could get it together. I thought I could be around people. I went to work, and the office was blissfully devoid of people, and I thought I'd be okay. I went to breakfast with a friend, because I thought I'd be okay with him, and I wasn't expecting Impossible Girl to be there.
I have never had anything but the best of thoughts toward her. I care so much for her, it's ridiculous, and to feel this anger shedding off of me in waves, and so much of it directed at her, I wanted to be anywhere else but there. I wanted to swim in my hate for her, and simulatenously apologize profusely to her for ever having had a thought like that.
I'm broken, I realized. Right then, I realized I'm broken, and I'm not okay, and I can't do this, and I can't be around people, and I can't be with her right now, and I can't do anything but run away. God, the desire to run away was so strong, I'm surprised I didn't literally run away from the table.
I cancelled our plans. I tried to explain it, I'm sure I failed. I don't expect anyone to understand. When you're fucked, when you're broken, it doesn't make sense. It can't. If I were okay, it would make sense. If I were okay, it wouldn't matter.
But, I'm not okay.
I want so badly to feel again, to rejoin the human race, to be okay. I want to be okay. And, I can't. I can't.
When you're broken, when you can dissociate from the world around you, you don't care who you hurt. They aren't real, these feelings you should feel. The only thing that hurts is that I know I should hurt for how I treated her. I know I should hurt for how I felt toward her.
The anger is gone now, but only because I know I'm not okay and I gave myself permission to go on being swtiched-off Chimpuat. For now. For how long? I want to be okay. How long do I have to be like this, before I can be okay?
If I try, even for a minute, to be normal, to think or feel like a normal person, it all comes back. The anger, why is it always the anger? Why is that always the easiest emotion for us to tap into?
And all this anger, it all comes back to me. I'm not mad at her, I'm mad at me. I'm not mad at my ex, I'm mad at me. I'm not mad at Sharp, I'm mad at me. It all comes back, it all comes home, and if you've never experienced it, you have no idea how much hate you can have for yourself.
You start to pick apart the very parts of you that make you human. You start to criticize everything you've ever done, every move you've ever made, every interaction and relationship you've ever engaged in.
I'm usually a nice person, I usually give without thought of receiving. I see the best in people. I see the potential that lives in everyone, and I don't see the way they see themselves, or the way the world sees them. I'm often wrong, but I'm never without hope that I'm right. If I were okay, I could be like that. If I were okay, it wouldn't matter.
But, I'm not okay. So the monster inside, it asks why I bother being that way. What has it ever done for me? Hasn't every bad thing that's ever happened to me been a result of that stupid way of thinking? Wouldn't it be nice for a change to take, instead of give? Why should I pour so much energy and time into anyone else, when I get so little back in return? Why would I ever invest in another person, ever again, when it's so much easier to be something else? Someone else? When is it my turn? When does someone come to see the good in me, past all the bad, and pull me out of whatever hole I'm in?
I don't want to be someone like that. I don't want to be some THING like that. And, if I were okay, it wouldn't be a threat. If I were okay, it wouldn't matter.
But, I'm not okay.
I'm not okay. I can either choose to be dulled and numb, or I can choose to be recklessly angry at everyone and myself. Right now, I have no happy medium, and I don't know how to get back to normal yet.
Maybe it just takes time. But how long? Maybe someone can help me. But who? How? She tried, and I lost it.
I am not without hope. I am not convinced this state never ends. I know there is a way out, I know this doesn't last forever, I just don't know how to get there. If I were okay, maybe the path would be clear.
But, I'm not okay.
I'm not okay.
I want to be okay.
Emergency shutdown initiated...
February 4, 2015
I can take a lot. I proved that years ago. I usually have enough energy to deal with the people and the world around me. I can take heartache. I can take pain. I can take loss. I can take loneliness.
I just can't take it all at once. So...I have to do what I thought I wouldn't do anymore.
|Jurassic Chimp is now offline
I've been overwhelmed the past few weeks, and I didn't even realize it. It took a bitch slap of truth from my subconscious to clue me in to what's the really real. A nightmare so vivid, so unbalancing, that I can still see it clearly in my mind several hours after the fact.
For a change it took place here, in my own house. Many of my nightmares take place in my parent's house, I'll let the psychology majors figure THAT one out. Not sure why, but this one was here. Maybe to make it more in the present for me, less related to the past.
The front door was open a crack, and I saw it move slightly. I've had this dream before. I know what's coming. I move to the door quickly, I try to push it closed, but I feel resistance, stronger and stronger, until the door is opening wider and wider and I can't stop it.
Men are pushing their way inside, I don't know them, they are wearing hats and some strange masks that partially obscure their faces, and they're inside the house. And, my poor dog Dallas is too weak to scare them off or protect me. I'm worried for her, that she'll be hurt by them if she tries. And then I'm scared, because my daughter is in the house, and they'll hurt her, and I can't stop them because there's too many.
I scream an impotent scream, hopeless and full of despair...and rage. I can do nothing to stop them. I am powerless. I am helpless. I know, instinctively, right then, that nothing I could have done to protect us would have worked once they were in the house.
If I had a gun? I would have been nowhere near it when they pushed inside. A knife? Even though there is one close by, I would still be outnumbered, and killing someone with a knife is no guarantee. I would likely end up dead by my own knife, and those I love would suffer even more.
And, then I woke up. Terrified. Paralyzed with fear. Anger. So much anger. So much anger I can't breathe.
I'm angry because it's my fault. The whole thing was my fault. I left the door open, just a crack, and someone was able to push their way inside and fuck up all my shit, and put those I love in danger and threaten everything about me. My whole existence, out of my hands, and at risk. If I had made sure that door was shut securely, if I had protected us properly, these men would not have been able to so easily threaten me.
I know what the dream means. I get it. You don't spend this many years being Chimpuat without learning how the mind of Chimpuat behaves. What it all means. What everything means.
I left my emotions open, just a hair, and it put me at risk, and everything and everyone that matters to me as well. I left it open for someone to push their way inside, and the only way to protect myself, the only way to be sure is to shut that door so securely that no one will EVER be able to open it. At least not right now.
I've been changing these past couple of months. A lot has changed. I am changed. Maybe it was too much, too fast. Maybe it wasn't what I should have done. Maybe this will pass. Maybe not. Too many questions, too much uncertainty.
I don't have answers. I've been accused of being wise, but I'm just as stupid and clueless as everyone else. I just have the mind that can't see THE future, but every possible future, and I have no idea which will win out over the others.
My friend is dying, and in a little over a week, I have to play piano for his wedding vow renewal ceremony, and hear his wife try to choke back the tears so she can say "till death do us part". That's an emotional body slam, and I've been bracing for it for weeks, and I don't know how I get past that. Every part of me wants that ceremony to end as quickly as possible, so I can run home and crawl into a tiny little ball and die inside.
But, I could take that.
If it were only that.
I have two dogs, one of which has been my rock for over 13 years. Age is finally catching up to her, and these past few days have been really hard for her. She's getting weaker, I can't get her to eat very much, and she's not doing well with controlling bodily functions.
At this point in her life, she has the dog equivalent of a living will. I'm not going to expend a lot of money or effort to prolong her life. If she's ready to go, if it's her time, then it's just her time and I'll do everything I can to make her as comfortable as possible for as long as she's able to stay with me. But, I feel like the time grows short.
She's been with me an entire quarter of my life. She's been with my daughter her whole life. Some of the worst times in my life, this dog was there for me, watching over me, comforting me, protecting me. Some people say that dogs don't have souls, but I don't believe that. I believe we love them so much, we give them a part of our own souls.
The past 2 days, I find myself lying on the floor with her, petting her, talking to her, tears streaming down my stupid face, because I can't control my emotions anymore. It's been evident for awhile now, and I just let it slide, but now I can't. I'm not going to be able to do what I need to do, so long as my emotions get in the way. I'm not going to be any good to anyone, if I can't get it together.
And on top of that, I realize that I've created this comfortable, safe world for myself, keeping everyone else out, and now when I need someone to be with me more than ever, there's no one. I don't mean friends or family, of course those are there, I mean someone closer than that, someone that can drag you out of those moments of despair and save you from yourself. I don't have that, and it's my fault. I chose that path.
Faced with 2 horrible things that on their own would be emotionally devastating, all I can think of is switching off. If I just turn it off, I can deal with this. I can get through this. I can leave just enough emotion to take care of my daughter, to be there for my friend, and to comfort my dog, but there isn't shit left over for anyone else. I can't let my emotions control me right now, I have to control them. I don't even want to be around other people right now.
I just hope I can flip the switch back when I make it to the other side of all this.
Inside you're ugly, ugly like me...
January 25, 2015
I made a new friend recently, and we were hanging out one night last week, and ended up in this depressing bar, which is actually kind of a redundant thing, because to me, ALL bars are depressing. Except titty bars. Those are magical. Like Tahiti.
If you didn't get that 'Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.' reference, I don't love you anymore, and I think we should see other people.
Anyway, it was one of those nights that will live in my memory forever, and I was hyper-focused on remembering EVERY detail, which is this stupid thing I do. Well, ok, I do a LOT of stupid things, but I have developed the habit of NOT paying much attention to what's around me, because if I focus on something, it gets locked in my memory. To varying degrees, I apply this 'gift' when necessary, but when it's an occasion where a lot of important things are happening, or emotions are involved, it can get out of hand pretty quickly.
My grandfather committed suicide when I was about 20. I recently recounted the story of that day to someone, and I was startled by all the stupid details I remembered. It was one of the most emotionally charged days of my life, and it's stuck in this fucked up head of mine, and when I pull this memory out, if I'm not careful, it's like reliving that day all over again. By the time I had finished my story, I was crying. How can something so far away still hurt me?
Because my memory is a dick.
|Not shown actual size, smart asses.
There was someone else with us that night in the bar, and she means a lot to me, and my memory was in full-on DVR mode as a result. Who was this 'someone else'? I refer to her as the Impossible Girl (sorry to introduce a new character, mid-season, but our ratings were low, and I'm NOT going the add-a-kid route). You'll learn more about her later. Some day, maybe.
Don't get your hopes up, she's not the romantic love interest in the Story of Chimpuat, but she IS a major character.
So, Impossible Girl was talking to some of her friends at the bar, and my new friend and I were left to our own devices. I really enjoyed talking to her, learning about her life, and her passion for photography, and the whole night was just a great experience getting to know someone really cool that I 'clicked' with before, but had never had a chance to bond with to any great degree.
Because I knew my memory would be locking onto everything around me, I was making an effort to 'tune out' as much of the background noise as possible. We listened to a lot of songs that night, and with one notable exception, I couldn't tell you what any of them were, because I didn't want them to get stuck in there with the other memories. I didn't want some song that I didn't even like to wedge itself into my brain on a night where I just wanted to remember everything, and never forget. I didn't want to hear one of the songs from that night, somewhere in the future, and bring that night into sharp focus...just in case the memories took a turn for the worse.
For example, the first girl to break my heart, when I found out what she had done, Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" was playing in the cassette deck. Yes, fuck you, I'm old. We were driving in my 1978 blue Camaro, it was an August night, the windows were down, and she was talking, and I didn't want to hear her, I didn't want to hear anything, and I turned the music up as loud as it could comfortably go, and then that fucking song has spent the rest of my life serving as a reminder of that pain.
If my new friend becomes a fixture in my life, I'll have to come up with a name for her. But, for now, New Friend will just have to suffice. Think of it as an interim name, pending the length and breadth of her role in my life.
Sometimes you meet people, and there's just something cool about them. I'm not good at meeting people. I'm not good at talking to people. I'm afraid of them. I avoid them. Sometimes, I look at people and wonder how they can belong to the same species as I do. I'm not outgoing. I'm not friendly. I'm not interesting. I'm just Chimpuat.
Impossible Girl has caused me to begin changing. I wouldn't say she has 'changed me', though. No one can change us. But, some people, by their very nature, can enable us to change ourselves.
So, when I first met New Friend, I wasn't as shy, or quiet. I was more friendly. I'm hesitant to say that my crushing social insecurity is cured, but there is certainly progress now. NF (see, I get lazy, and first I'm giving them nicknames, and then I'm giving them acronyms) is one of those people that I just instantly liked. She's smart, supremely talented, and funny as hell. A lot happened on the night in question, but one of the things I'll remember most fondly is how much better I got to know NF.
BUT...we're sitting there, we're both drinking water, and she's showing me her Instagram and Facebook portfolios of her photography work, and it's just such a great moment. When someone has something about themselves that they really love, a passion, it's awesome to get to participate in that, and let them share it with you. See? Chimpuat is learning. Evolving. Pretty soon I'll be a hairless, upright-walking ape like the rest of you.
There's always music playing in a bar, and I was successfully tuning all of it out because I didn't want any of it fucking up my memories. But, NF, being unaware of my condition, draws my attention to a song, and she starts singing along with it, and FUCKING FUCK, NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
|This happens to me a lot more often than you'd think.
Fucking Staind, "Outside". Fuck. Of all the FUCKING songs to tag to a memory, it has to be THAT? I try to tune it out, try to tune her out, but it's like an ear cancer, and it worms its way into my brain,and suddenly I'm singing along, too, and FUUUUUUUUCCKKKKK!!!!!!
Granted, it's a cool song. I always liked it. But, I didn't want it to to attach itself to a memory and just reside in my mind for all of eternity. I didn't want a song to associate itself with that night, because now, for the rest of my life, that song is going to drag that memory around like a dog with a chew toy. Every time I hear it, from now until Alzheimer's, I will remember that night.
Ever since that night, because my brain has been struggling to process the events that transpired, that song has been on a repeat loop in my head. I walk through the house, and find myself humming it without even realizing I was. I hear it when I'm trying to fall asleep. I wake up, thinking I'm finally free, and then the soundtrack of my insanity kicks in once again, and we're off to the races.
It's not NF's fault, she didn't know me well enough to have any idea how my mind operates, and I wasn't exactly advertising to the world "Hey, don't fuck this up, I'm recording", so I'm not mad at her or anything. I just kind of have a little hate for her, which isn't a bad thing, I think we need to reserve a litte hate for everyone in our lives. It can't be all good, all the time.
It's going to take me a long time to work through all the thoughts and emotions that have happened as a result of that night. Parts of the story will probably unfold here over several posts, and parts of the story will never see the light of day. Because I'm a writer, and we make shit up all the time, you may not even want to believe a single thing you read.
In trying to process what's been going on, I guess my mind is focusing on the things that are most easily explained first, and in this case...it's that stupid fucking Staind song, and the fact that I can't get it out of my head. Once I get past this initial stage, hopefully in a few days, the song should let up on me a little bit.
Memories are strange, wonderful, and annoying fucking things. They build us up, give us a base, remind us of the moments in our lives that were filled with happiness. But, they also tear us down, haunt us, and remind us of the pain and scars we can never fully wash away, because of them.
I'd rather have a stupid song attach itself to a complex memory that I never want to forget, than to have never made any memories at all.
So, if NF ever reads this, I hope she knows how much I enjoyed getting to know her that night. And also, how much I kind of hate her for jamming that song in the middle of a memory. But that's the key to all friendships, the key to their strength, is that sometimes a little darkness is mixed in with the light. Besides, it's only a LITTLE hate.
After all, it's not like she can see through me, see to the real me.
I kind of felt bad, subjecting the world to a blog post about my stupid toys, and I had this ready, so you all get the benefit of my boredom and lack of better shit to do.
I'm still recovering from the lack of sleep that's plagued me the last few weeks. I've got so much I need to write about, and so many things happening all at once, it's hard to calm my mind down enough to actually sleep.
I don't want to give the impression that I don't like the way my brain works. I love my mind. Even at my advanced age, it's still capable of amazing me.
If there was something about me that I disliked or wanted to change at all, it'd be my fatness, but even that is beginning to take care of itself. I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, or shit like that, but the things I've recently learned about myself have helped me to focus on some behaviors that were contributing to my weight issues.
I'll go into further details in a future post, because it's way too much to cover here, and this thing is already long enough ("that's what she said"). Suffice it to say, I'm doing all right, I'm working toward achieving an even greater level of happiness, and it's a direct result of Impossible Girl's influence on my life.
Hate to drop teasers like that, but I promise, over the next few weeks, more of the story will be revealed. There are some parts of the story that are going to be pretty hard to convey, but I figure if I'm going through something, someone reading this some day may be able to relate, and maybe it will help.
The next few weeks have many challenges in store for me. Lots of pain. But, I am the mighty Chimpuat, and this too shall pass.
So, until next time, find something to hold onto, it gets bumpy from here. And, if you have someone to hold on to, don't let go. If you let go, the dream might end.
Look, sir! Droids!
January 24, 2015
I have a million thoughts in my head, but I've been meaning to do this since these guys arrived a couple of weeks ago, so you'll just have to wait for the WAY more interesting stuff, and suffer through my nerdgasm.
I've been lusting after the stuff at Sideshow Collectibles for years now, but could never afford it. I still can't really afford it, but they finally had something on sale at a price I could live with, so I went for it.
I got the Geonosis Infantry Battle Droids set, because I think droids are absolutely fucking awesome (most of them), and because at $129.99 for two of them, it seemed like one of the best deals around. I also had a discount code that knocked a bit more off, which ultimately convinced me to pull the trigger.
|Unwrapping, as close to panty dropping as I'm gonna get...
I already have a ton of 12" figures (no dick jokes, please), but Sideshow prefers to refer to them as 1/6th scale. Whatever. They're still 12" figures. The prices of my existing collection (all releases from the Hasbro line), ranged from $10 to $70, with the electronic talking Darth Vader and Boba Fett figures fetching the highest prices. Obviously, the figures that came with vehicles or mounts were more expensive, but for JUST figures, that's where things stood.
I picked up a Battle Droid Commander for like $15, and I thought he was pretty bad ass. I figured that would be a good frame of reference to compare against the Sideshow droids, since they're basically the same character, just different paint.
|Yes, this IS how droids poop.
The Sideshow droids came in 'standby' pose, crouched down the way they would be before being activated by the droid control ship. I thought this was a neat touch on their part. The first difference I noticed between these and the droid I had was the quality of the plastic.
The Hasbro toys are made of some kind of rubberized plastic, which is fine, but it can lend itself to warping pretty easily if you're not careful with them. Sideshow, on the other hand, use a higher quality, more rigid plastic. They're heavier, and the difference in materials seems to make the joints operate better on the Sideshow product.
Since I got 2 droids in the box, I naturally assumed they were cast from the same mold, and painted identically. That would have been the sensible thing, right? This is where attention to detail differentiates the Sideshow product.
|I'm running out of stupid and/or funny shit to say in these captions.
In the picture above, notice how the operating numbers on their backs are different, as are the paint details showing scuffs and wear on their bodies. THAT struck me as neat as hell, that they'd actually go ahead and make the droids different.
Also, if you'll notice the antenna on their backs, on the Hasbro droid, the antenna is molded plastic, part of the body and not retractable. The antennas on the Sideshow droids can be retracted and extended. So cool.
|Someone somewhere, will probably take note that the 'boss' seems to be a much lighter color than the soldier droids. Guess that's Star Wars racism for ya.
Side by side, despite the difference in materials and the manufacturing quality, it's REALLY hard to tell a difference between the $15 droid and the $65/each droids. They are all cool, but for a display piece, I'm hard pressed to say the $50 price premium is justified for the average collector. If you have to have the 'best', then yeah, you go with Sideshow. If, like me, you just love the way the characters look, and it's fun to display stuff you like, you really hit a big gray area.
If I lived in a world where money was no object, I'd buy Sideshow every time. Their stuff is REALLY nice. But, I don't live in that world, I live in THIS world, and this world says you go for value.
So, unless it's a figure that simply doesn't have a value alternative and I can't live without it, I will not likely buy any other Sideshow items. I love my collection, I don't regret buying the Sideshow Battle Droids, they're beautiful, but if I can barely tell a difference at a distance, I doubt anyone coming to my house would either.
Still, they made a great addition to the collection, and allowed me to finish off this 'scene'.
|Leave it to the bad guys to gang up on a guy.
So much has transpired in the last week. So many things are so clear to me, and so much has been revealed. I'm still collecting my thoughts, and determining what I'm comfortable sharing, if anything.
Things may get pretty deep, so bring hip waders or something.
The short version of the story is that your favorite primate is evolving. At my age, I didn't think there was much left for me to learn, in general, and certainly not about myself. But, sometimes someone comes along and they hold a mirror up to you, and you see who you really are.
So yeah, I have a lot to say. And, I'm still on track to kick 2015's ass, so this should be interesting.
My final thought is my Twitter account, (you SHOULD be following @Chimpuat). I have over 100 followers now, and some of those are even actual people, and not just porn bots. It's far easier to write 140 character thoughts down, than it is to prepare a whole blog post. It's the best way to get a steady fix of everyone's favorite chimp, and a good opportunity to interact with me (cuz I like messages and shit).
So, until next time, have a good night, or day, or whatever. Depends on when you read this, I guess, right? I'm too emotionally and mentally exhausted to say anything too perverse or pithy right now. I guess, what, touch a boobie or something? Let's go with that.
Feels like the first time...
January 14, 2015
If you stop to think about it, everything we've ever done, everything we'll ever do, it all has a first time. Chances are, there are VERY few things we were good at that first time, too. Truth be told, we probably sucked the first time we did almost anything.
First time I walked? I don't remember it, but I'm sure the struggle was real. First time riding a bike, first time driving a car, first time writing in cursive, first time doing Geometry, first time building a website, and of course...all of our sexual firsts.
Even the mighty Chimpuat, ancient and timeless though I am, had to have had a first time, a sexual origin story as it were, worthy of the greatest of superheroes.
|Oddly enough, if I was a male stripper, "The Hammer" would be my stage name.
Once upon a time, I lived in the past, and I pined for it. I obsessed over going back somehow and fixing all the things I had fucked up. I clung to the very idea that the answers to the future must lie in the past. I practiced fruitless psychological archaelogy for many years, before I realized the awful truth.
The past belongs in the past. The future belongs to the future.
That doesn't mean we should forget the past. Oh, to be sure, there are things I'd LIKE to forget. Similarly, there are things I've forgotten that I wish I remembered better. The problem with an overactive imagination, and I think a lot of writers suffer from this, is that sometimes you rewrite memories to be what you WANTED them to be. Edited memories make better stories.
That's why you can never QUITE tell when I'm telling the truth, or completely full of shit.
For example, if I said "I once fucked a pregnant girl back in the 90s that I met on AOL, and I have no idea what her name was, or if I even enjoyed it", it is incumbent upon you, the reader, to determine if that is truth or fabrication, or somewhere in between.
But, as usual, I digress.
This is about firsts. And, since one of only two things I brag about (the other being my intelligence) is sex-related, we must dig deep into the dark recesses of Chimpuat history, to bring you the story of a young man's first experience as a white-belt Tung Fu padawan.
I started collecting research on female anatomy when I was in elementary school. Yeah, I was "that" kid. A brain like mine abhors a vacuum, and there were CLEARLY things about the female body that were being kept from me by the parental establishment (aka, the ministry of DISinformation).
While I appreciated seeing the female form in all its naked glory (still do, send those cards and letters showing me your boobies to firstname.lastname@example.org), it was the written portions of those magazines which fueled my insatiable desire for knowledge the most. Letters to Penthouse were absolute treasure troves of useful, descriptive information. It didn't matter if they were fake, they put into context the images I had seen.
Looking back, it was much like getting your first driver's license. There was a classroom portion, an information download if you will, full of facts and rules you had to memorize in order to pass a written exam. But, it was the driving, being able to show that you had mastered the skills necessary to APPLY the information, that ultimately won you the prize.
When I took driver's ed, I got an A in the classroom portion, and a D in the driving. I was not about to let my license to please women be similarly encumbered.
As with any educational pursuit, sometimes you need a tutor. I met my tutor when I was 17, a lesbian co-worker named Ginger, who filled in the gaps in my informal book learning, with real world anecdotes. She even used her own body (or rather, allowed ME to use it) to accomodate myself with the various parts that I would be working with in the field. We never had sex, and she never touched me (she offered, but I was there to learn, not to make a mess).
There was a girl I liked, and I wanted to unleash my years of training and study on her, to give her the gift of my PHd in the art of pleasuring women, because I (incorrectly, foolishly, stupidly) thought that simply KNOWING how things work would somehow translate into being able to claim immediate mastery upon my first real effort.
Ginger, my personal Mr. Miyagi of punani, warned me that knowing and doing were vastly different, and that in the heat of battle, many a soldier had forgotten their training. But, I was arrogant. Stubborn. Brash. Like Luke Skywalker rushing off wholly unprepared to face Darth Vader, I ignored my sensei and flew off to Cloud City. Or something.
The problem with being 17 in the 1980s in a small, boring town, is you REALLY didn't have many places you could go for some alone time with your favorite gal. It helped that I had a car, but it was a '78 Camaro, theoretically great for GETTING girls (if anyone other than me were driving one), but horrible for trying to find room to GET IN girls, if you know what I mean. It was completely impossible for me to get into a position which would allow me to show off my oral prowess.
On the bright side, at least, the intended girl was completely down with my plan and ready to see what I was capable of. It wasn't until much later in life that crushing rejection would rear its ugly head, but that's a story for another day (and maybe therapy).
We ended up on the edge of town in a new development construction area, lying in a dirt field that would one day be someone's back yard, on top of a blanket. It was summer, so the temperature was perfect, the sky was clear, the conditions were perfect to make my mark on history.
Now, in the 1980s, in a small town, in Indiana, it was...common...for a girl's pubic area to be...hirsute? Hairy as fuck? Scary like kissing the face of bigfoot?
Ginger had been ahead of her time, she kept hers neatly trimmed to a bare minimum, just this side of shaved, and I (incorrectly, stupidly, foolishly) assumed that this was their natural state. I was genetically blessed with very little body hair, so I never considered that other people were different from me. The girls in the magazines were all similarly shorn, so as to maximize the visceral appeal of their nether regions.
It just never occured to me that I might encounter, right out of the gate, the hairiest pussy known to man.
You know when someone's cat comes up to you and starts rubbing up against your leg and getting all inappropriate, and you don't know whether to pet it or kick it? It was that level of confusion.
She got naked from the waist down, and all of the sudden, I'm having flashbacks to the episodes of "The 6 Million Dollar Man" that used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid (the bigfoot episodes, I always had an unnatural fear of bigfoot).
But, with Ginger's voice still ringing in my ear, "Remember your training, soldier!"...or was it, "If done correct, no can defend"?...anyway, I wasn't about to let this opportunity pass because of some childhood fears and unexpected complications.
You know that one Bigfoot-esque creature down south they call the Skunk Ape, because of the smell when it's allegedly nearby?
I think you know where I'm going.
The closer I got to my destination, the more I realized I was COMPLETELY unprepared for what was about to transpire. I mean, it wasn't her fault, it was normal in the 80s, it's just that all my training had been in a totally different environment. It's like learning to drive on an automatic transmission, and the day of the test you find out all they have available is manual.
For the record, I learned to drive on a manual, took my driving TEST on a manual, and aced that bitch.
Like a great explorer in the Peruvian jungle, I hacked and slashed my way through the thick undergrowth until I had reached my destination. Here I was, at the doorway to the garden of Heaven, one extended tongue away from finally putting to use all the study and training I had committed myself to for the previous 7 years. This was go time.
I ran my tongue from the bottom, to the top, slowly, pushing my tongue inside, savoring the sensation of her opening up to my probing mouth.
Now, had I not been incorrect, stupid, or foolish up to this point, I may have CONSIDERED the possibility that not only where there is smoke, there is fire, but where there is smell, there is taste. Ginger had never told me about the taste. We had never got to that lesson. I had just Luke Skywalker FUCKED myself into facing Vader before I was ready, and now I was about to pay the price.
The taste was horrifying.
I have never had a very well developed palate for refined taste, preferring the dietary habits of a 7 yr old rather than the mature food preferences of a normal adult. I literally eat the same thing every single day, and I'm happy with that, and I was hardly any different at 17 than I am today (just a bit skinnier).
One of the things I knew I hated PASSIONATELY was anchovies, because I worked in a pizza place, and the smell of those things cooking in the ovens behind me would almost literally gag me to tears.
I do not mean to imply that women taste, or smell, like fish. I am merely saying that at the age of 17, faced with a new sensory input and forced to put it into the perspective of my existing database of tastes and smells, THAT is what it reminded me of.
That owl in the sucker commercial got in more licks than I did, because I aborted the mission. I made some excuse that it was getting late, or I thought I heard a car coming, so we got her dressed and I took her home. I was crushed.
Worse still, I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth.
Now, since that time, experience and expertise have taught me that nearly all women taste and smell beautiful and desirable, and there is nothing at all gross or off-putting about that area, unless it's someone who has REALLY just let things go to hell, in which case I would never be in a situation to be down there in the first place. If we are at a point where I'm about to go down on you, I have deemed it an acceptable risk that you will smell and taste as delightful as I can possibly imagine, and I have never been let down in that regard.
I vaguely remember, after dropping her off, going to a friend's house and asking for something to drink to get the taste out of my mouth. I also remember they congratulated me, and also laughed hysterically at my negative reaction.
It would be almost an entire YEAR before I would venture to try that again with anyone, but that's a story for the day we talk about the SECOND time, and today is all about the first.
For the record, the second time was substantially better, and thanks to some additional mentoring from Ginger, I was every bit as good at it as I expected to be. It would be some years yet before I would reach the 7th level of Tung Fu mastery, but that second time around was definitely an exceptional experience for both of us.
So, other than the fact that I love sex and all things sex-related, and I can see the obvious humor in my story of kissing Bigfoot on his hairy stank mouth, there is a reason why I'm thinking about "firsts" lately.
It has been 2 years since I participated in the act of sex with another person. Although I have no doubt that my Tung Fu mastery remains intact (insert eating pussy is like riding a bike comparison here), my other sexual ninja skills may be somewhat less...reliable?
If Martin Lawrence taught us anything, it's that you NEVER brag on your dick. So, I won't even go there. I was never very good at sex, in my own opinion, that's probably part of why I developed my other skills to such an extreme degree. I was (and I suppose still am) highly self-conscious about my ability to be a pleasing sexual partner, BEYOND the first act.
But now, it's been TWO FUCKING YEARS since I've been inside a woman, and there is every reason to believe that I will have gotten FAR worse, than to imagine I would have gotten any better. So, quite literally, when I find the right girl, and when she deigns to allow me access to her pleasure centers, it is going to be as if I am losing my virginity all over again.
Like an acceptance speech at the Golden Globes, I'm already penning my apology in my head. Because it's been so long, I can't even fall back on the old standard "this has never happened before!" if something goes awry, because in TWO FUCKING YEARS, I really have no idea how or if shit even works at all.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about my lack of sex. This was a self-imposed exile, straight out of the Book of Yoda, because I would have done things for the wrong reasons, with the wrong people, and I didn't want to hurt anyone, use anyone, or make myself feel more like a guilty piece of shit than I already did.
Not only do I have to find a girl willing to have sex with me (eventually), but I have to find a girl willing to run out to the power shed and reboot Jurassic Park, cuz I don't know the fuck if this shit is gonna perform as expected or not.
|I ain't got no time for no motherfuckin' raptors on no motherfuckin' plane
And, all this does, all this borrowed anxiety for what MIGHT happen, or COULD happen, or PROBABLY WON'T happen, is fuck with my head. I am so messed up over this, if I did happen to find a girl that wanted to have sex with me, I would probably try to talk her out of it. I am literally planning to BLOCK MY OWN FUCKING COCK!!!!
My initial fear is that I'll be the living embodiment of a "2-pump chump". I won't even say "minuteman", because honestly I'd be surprised if I last that long. TWO FUCKING YEARS, man. And that's if I happen to have sex any time in the near future. I have every reason to believe it could be another year, or more, before I engage in that particular activity again.
Unfortunately, once I started thinking about it, I got to wondering, what if 'hang time' is the least of my concerns? What if I can't even "rise to the occasion", as it were? What if this break from reality has irrevocably broken my ability to get hard when another person is around? What if I need the smell of hand lotion and the soothing soundtrack of cheap porn to start my engines?
Granted, I don't THINK that would actually be the case, but I can't help but wonder WHAT IF.
Having sex after a long break like that is literally like having sex for the first time all over again. All of the awkwardness, all of the anxiety, all of the fear, and the very real possibility that I will absolutely be the WORST sex this hypothetical girl will have ever had.
Well, except for the pre-show...I mean, honestly, I'm really as good as I say I am. I may bullshit about a lot of things, but I don't lie about THAT, and I don't lie about my intelligence. I can provide signed affidavits upon request, maybe even audio testimonials.
If I ever go back to man-whoring, I'm going to get some of those customer comment cards like they have at Steak n Shake, or something.
|There's ALWAYS room for improvement, even at the top.
I haven't gone this long without sex in probably 20 years, and this may in fact be the longest amount of time I've sequestered myself from the human race. I don't know what to expect, and it freaks me out.
In the olden days, maybe I would have found a "slumpbuster" to blow the dust off Lil Chimpy and put him through his paces so I know everything is still operating at peak efficiency. Unfortunately, my experiences from the divorce onward have been such that I am no longer capable of engaging in sexual activity for purely recreational or scientific purposes.
I need someone I care about, someone I'm invested in, someone who really matters to me as more than a friend. Somewhere along the line, I developed feelings for other humans, and a greater appreciation of my own needs, and now I can't just do shit for the fuck of it (so to speak). I can't have meaningless sex. I don't even know if I could ever have a friend with benefits again, I may be too far gone for even that, I just don't know.
At any rate, that's why I'm thinking about firsts, specifically as they relate to sexual encounters. I'm really great at oral sex, but the first time I wasn't. I got better (LOTS better), but only after surviving that first disastrous encounter. I don't want to relive that kind of disaster with someone I care enough about to have sex with, but I don't see that I have a choice.
I can only hope that whoever she is, she cares enough about me to be patient, and give me a chance to improve. That means I'll probably have to have "the talk" with some girl in the future, and apologize in advance for any performance issues resulting from my period of inactivity.
I think...well, I think if it's someone I trust enough to consider sex with, then it's someone who can handle that. If I'm wrong, well, at least I'll always have YouPorn.
Because I'm a major nerd, my next post here will likely be about some new Star Wars toys I got. This arrived last week, and if you know anything about Sideshow Collectibles, you know their stuff is the epitome of awesome.
|I hadn't been this excited to open something since the last time I took a hot girl's panties off
My battle droids arrived safe and sound, and I'll be showing off some pictures, because I'm an idiot, and I always wanted something from Sideshow, and this was my first piece from them, and now I might just be hooked for life.
Remember the Tao of Chimpuat...surround yourself with the things that make you happy. I may not be having sex, but I'll for damn sure have me some Star Wars.
Anyway, until next time, enjoy your life, look before you leap (or lick), and make sure that if you ask a female coworker if you can check her "sent box", she understands EXPLICITLY that you are referring to her Outlook email client, and that you mean SENT, and not SCENT. Fucking homophones get me every time.
Should I have taken the blue pill?
January 7, 2015
It's hard for me to grasp that the original Matrix movie came out in 1999. That seems like, well not just a lifetime ago, but damn near TWO lifetimes ago. It pre-dates my failed marriage, and the subsequent regeneration I've undergone in the past 4 years.
I'm basically the Dr. Who of primates, when you get right down to it, constantly reinventing myself, continually being reborn after learning painful lesson after painful lesson.
I could grab the low-hanging fruit and make a comment about never quite finding the right companion, but I'm better than that.
Except that I just did it, didn't I? Fuck.
If you don't watch Dr. Who, by the way, you're missing out. If you only watch ONE episode of this show, just on a lark, just to give it a shot, watch the episode called "Blink". It'll make a believer out of you.
So, okay, where was I? The Matrix? Ah, yes.
Well, as it turns out, my thoughts are on the Matrix, because of the pill choice scene. As the story goes, you take the red pill, and you see reality, and the dream is removed from in front of your eyes. You take the blue pill, you get to stay in Wonderland.
Somewhere along the way, I don't remember when (probably before this movie came out), I think I took the red pill. What made me think of this was some random thing I said on Twitter the other day (if you're not following me, you suck).
I was thinking that 'foolish optimism' was sort of a redundant thing to say, as there can really be no other form of optimism. I prefer to believe in realism, which essentially means that Murphy's Law is the norm, not the exception, and whatever great plan you have is almost certainly bound to be fucked up by the universe at large. I even went so far as to say that pessimism is simply realism taken to its logical conclusion.
On the surface, this seems to be a pretty bleak outlook, and I will grant you that at times...yeah, it's pretty fucked up. Living in reality isn't for the faint of heart. That isn't to say that reality doesn't have good things in it, though. It's just that the good things aren't as easy to find and enjoy as the optimists would have you believe.
You would think that being a realist means never being happy, but you'd be wrong. I'm surprisingly happy. I didn't do anything to earn or deserve this happiness, I just attempted to live a life that would have happiness as a by-product of the decisions I made.
That means I did without some things. That means I made some difficult choices. That means I took inventory of my life, was honest about what I wanted to achieve, and took steps to make that happen.
The realist in me knows that happiness is never guaranteed. Being happy today doesn't mean tomorrow will be the same. You start taking happiness for granted, you're bound to lose it. You certainly risk losing the ability to appreciate it.
Once upon a time, I was the Chimpuat that would shit on your dreams if you were an unhappy person. Clearly, thought the old I, it's your own damn vault.
|"That's a bitch slap of truth."
I have since learned that being happy isn't easy. If it was, everyone would be happy, right? Duh. Brilliant fucking deduction, MENSA candidate.
Being happy is hard work, and it never ends. You stop, even for a minute, and you run the risk of derailing the train. And, sadly, sometimes you put the work in, you do everything right, and something else in the world gets in the way. Sometimes it's someONE else.
The bitch about taking the red pill, about living in reality AS a realist, is you become acutely aware that happiness comes in fragments, in stolen moments and memories seared into your subconscious.
Happiness is hearing your kid laughing her ass off at something stupid or ridiculous you did or said, and months later she's still talking about it. Happiness is finding a good parking spot, or finding out a meeting you didn't want to attend got cancelled. Happiness is meeting someone who makes you feel okay to be yourself. Happiness is not always having to be the strong one.
If I was happy ALL the fucking time, I'd seriously begin to suspect that I had, in fact, taken the blue pill after all. If I didn't know about all the dark parts of life in this world, maybe it would be pretty easy to be happy. If I was completely unaware that some people NEVER get to be happy, then I could live my happy life without concerns at all.
The truth is, reality IS bleak. Realism is unforgiving. Shit breaks. People become broken. Dreams crumble. Hopes go up in smoke. Plans change.
So, now that I think about it, maybe I'm guilty after all of indulging in a little foolish optimism. Because, I do believe things get better with time. I do believe that eventually things work out. I do believe that temporary set backs are just that, temporary. I have a lifetime of anecdotal experience to back that belief up.
I don't think I would have survived life if I had taken the blue pill. Life inside the matrix just isn't for me. I prefer reality, with all of its risks, and many rewards. I was happy today. I don't know what tomorrow holds.
The first winter storm of 2015, and the forecast kept calling for "4 to 7 inches", and the infantile, perverse child in me just could not stop giggling at the thought that "4 to 7 inches" isn't a weather forecast, it's the expectation level setting exercise I should be doing with girls who want to have sex with me (if such girls existed).
This, of course, got me thinking about average penis size (because isn't that what all men inevitably think about?), and I ran across some interesting information on Medical Daily:
...a 2013 study published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine found the average American man’s penis is 5.6 inches (14.2 centimeters) long when erect and 4.8 inches in circumference.
Since I know the majority of my 3 readers are male, I will pause now while you go grab a tape measure to see where you land on the Cock Scale.
I am the first to admit that I am in no way prepared to write checks my dick can't cash, so I'm just going to be honest and let this song say it for me.
Less than a week into the new year, and I think it's going well, all things considered. I've added some new Star Wars toys to my collection (because apparently I've given up on EVER having sex again), and I'm now one pointless/obscure bounty hunter away from recreating the scene in Empire Strikes Back. That's right Dengar, I'm looking at you, ya bandage-headed asshole.
All of the other bounty hunters in that scene are pretty kick ass, but I saved him for last because I really don't want him, it's just that the completionist in me can't NOT get him.
I also ordered the Sideshow Collectible's version of the prequel battle droids, to see if they're REALLY worth the price premium over the 'normal' one I already have. See, I waste money on pointless shit, so YOU don't have to. You all owe me a debt of immense gratitude.
This week saw the purchase of my very first paper shredder, too. I have thoroughly enjoyed feeding shit into it, and waiting for it to choke to death. So far, it hasn't, and I'm having way too much fun putting stuff in it. It's no substitute for all the sex I'm not having, but be damned if it still isn't a pretty sweet way to spend a Friday evening.
So, yeah, 2015 is coming along quite nicely at Casa Chimpuat, which inevitably means something will probably break. Realism...it sucks.
Anyway, until next time, have a good night, don't get caught measuring your junk, don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to, and DON'T get them wet or feed them after midnight.