The Water Planet

Although summer draws to a close, my sadness continues.

I tell no one about my continuing sadness because of the adage that ends with “cry and you cry alone.”

I tell no one that I want to be dead because everyone, I’m told, experiences these thoughts of self-denial and self-rejection.

I simply have given up on expecting anything new for myself the rest of my life.

Would it bode well, if they knew, for the people in my life now and the people I’ll meet in the future that although I’ll make them feel like they’re the most important people in my life in the moments I spend with them, it’s the same from moment to moment to me, ad infinitum, making the next person and the next feel important?

How many schoolchildren are self-aware enough to realise the special teachers in their lives were that way?

Is that all there is, just one person after another giving other people feelings of importance, of hope, of love?

Above and beyond the simple act of procreation?

Above and beyond the simplicity of sets of states of energy in motion?

I know it is.

And if that’s the fact, then what’s next?

Is it worth my effort to believe that what we call our species will spearhead space exploration, creating settlements of repurposed ecosystems on other celestial spheroids?

Why do I need to believe that in order to wake up with a feeling of self-worth?

As much as I can wrap my hands, arms and body around another dancer, get as close to dancing as one unit as is possible for me, I still do not completely feel like I can completely connect with another person — this, too, ties in to my feeling of self-worth.

I simply do not believe I am worth anything.

My wife keeps propping me up, keeps me alive for reasons I cannot possibly fathom — we have no children together so it’s not for the sake of keeping her children’s father viable as a meaningful contribution to her children’s success.

I am running out of reasons to stay alive.

I have given up courting another woman to be a mother for my kids because if I don’t believe in myself then I probably won’t find the energy to be a father for my offspring, let alone the fact that I’d probably pass on my narcissistic, pacifistic, suicidal nihilism to them.  I’d not wish my true self on my worst enemies.

Instead, I wait to die.

I used to fear being bored.

Now it’s just my daily life — wake, shower, eat dinner, dress, go to work to help save lives of people I’ll never know, masturbate, sleep.

Boredom or depression, I can’t tell the difference anymore and it just doesn’t matter anymore.

I wait to die.

I wait.

And I wait.

Why do I bother typing here anymore?

I don’t know, other than it keeps my away from my wife and the cats, keeps me away from people and animals I feel obligated to make feel their lives are the most important in the world, which increases my boredom even more.

I’m tired of entertaining people, tired of feeding fantasies, mine or theirs, tired of smiling, tired of living.

The universe is supposed to be a projection of my thoughts, isn’t it?

If it is, shouldn’t I feel better about myself?

Shouldn’t I want more?

Have I really hit the end of life at age 55?

It seems so.

The last decade has been a stretch to stay alive.

I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.

I’ll just sit here and veg out.

Maybe I’ll blog again, maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter either way.

Shhhhh….listen carefully


This is your other self, the one who sits in your thoughts watching you walk through the world, seeing you smile while propping up a weak self image.

What you want you cannot deny.

What you fear doesn’t exist the way you think it does.

A generation from now, your grandchildren won’t know what you were like so any worries or frustrations you felt only show themselves in major decisions you made.

Do you want kids of your own? Why wait?

Drop the ballast, cut off the anchor, set sail into unknown waters, make her the one with whom you want to raise kids.

Love is nice and all but it’s not the same as you think it is.

Being kind doesn’t matter if you died childless when you could have sired offspring.

Take it from me, your wise self, billions of years in the making!

Coffee, mate

A comma divides an artificial nondairy creamer into a roasted bean drink and a word with many meanings.

Mate, pal, buddy, friend.

Mate, join, reproduce.

Can we analyse the combination of coffee and mate in light of multiple meanings?

Is it a demand that coffee reproduce?

Does it imply that artificial creamers are friends of Coffee?

Or do we clearly see that artificial creamers naturally join / fuse with coffee?

Ingredients are not listed on the packaging so I cannot determine chemical compatibility.

Neither one can reproduce with the aid of the other.

I am perplexed.

I do not have a ready answer for my breakfast drink inquiry this morning.

I may never figure this out (low importance, no urgency).

Oh well…

Boo hoo

Knowing I will remain alone the rest of my life, giving up any last hope…

I don’t want to be that person.

I really don’t.

But there is only me left here, left to fend for myself, sitting in a cafe by myself, not interested in talking to anyone else because I’d have to turn on the chameleon, the people pleaser, suppress the contrarian until the conversation was over.

My dear, dear friend, I am broken for life, incapable of letting you in, trapped in a pretend marriage that both makes me want to kill myself and keeps me from doing so.

I have wanted you in every way that this brutish male body is prone to do but only know how to treat you as my genderless equal.

I’m pretty sure you don’t read this blog so you don’t even know I’m writing and thinking about you.

That’s okay.

I’m not sure you really exist.

At the beginning of summer I gave up any hope of escape from my marriage; rather, I decided to let my wife’s heterosexual, monogamous subculture beat me down one last time — it always won in the past, it might as well win now, too.

I’m borderline hopeless.

I think I have given up hope of living 400 more years, dying on Mars after pioneering multiple outposts and colonies there with you.

It’s not worth the effort to pretend anymore.

I am permanently despondent, food tasteless, politics uninteresting, state-of-the-art development lost in translation, stuck in a kind of retirement home limbo, waiting to die.

Boo hoo. Woe is me. Lol

Time to stare truly mindlessly into the void…virtual suicide.

Releasing the demons

When I was in junior high school, fifth grade, just after my girlfriend of three years died, vulnerable, alone, afraid, I was sexually assaulted by guys in both the boys’ bathroom and locker room.

There was no God to rescue me from the assault.

From that moment on, I was firmly an atheist, trusted no one, and feared intimacy.

When younger, preschool on up, my father beat me until I passed out, beginning me on the path of atheism, no deus ex machina, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the world that lasts until today.

Trust no one, especially when alone together, has been my modus operandi from a young age.

Assault can come and probably will come from your closest friends and family.

Build masks, layers upon layers of them, that you can let others remove for you, hoping they’ll find and heal the real you.

Learn to lie to yourself that one day you’ll be okay — become a good if not great storyteller in the process.

Understand that life sucks but suck it up, buckle up, batten down, and pretend to be the happiest, most serene, meditative guy on Planet Earth who just happens to want to leave this godforsaken planet and live free from humans on Mars.

No longer will I keep this private, sharing only with my closest friends that i was raped by a guy in high school.

For creatures who’ve build amazing civilisations, we’re still brutes who will satisfy their sexual cravings with anything that moves.

I fear guys in general.

Every gal I don’t know what to do but treat them as equals, aware that many of them have been beaten and raped by guys.

The few women who somehow found their way through the outer walls of my thoughts and I let them seduce me found my body physically fit, my caring, sensual foreplay arousing and my average six-inch erection sexually satisfying; all but one of them (my wife) broke up with me because they said I was too nice of a guy and too smart for them, freeing me to find a nice, smart, life companion, especially the one I kept comparing them to (my wife).

I met my wife at summer church camp the year after my girlfriend died and was first sexually assaulted by guys. There wasn’t an ounce of sexual interest emanating from my wife. She was a classic nerd, genderless, picked last to play dodgeball, sarcastic to guys in general.

I couldn’t help but find her attractive in a life frirndship sort of way.

But I burn with sexual desire, much more than my wife wants to share, putting me in the awkward situation where she won’t be intimate with me as often as I like and I’m afraid to approach anyone else.

C’est la vie.

Life goes on.

I’ll do my best to interact with humans despite my fear of most of them.

I’ll continue to pretend to be Mr. Happy, giving hope to others when I have no hope for myself.

“I’m not a virgin”

“I’m not a virgin,” said a friend at a party tonight.

“No. No, she isn’t,” smirked a former lover of hers to me as an aside.

Married nearly 31 years, I am like a virgin, still the same guy who in high school a girl I was once alone with and made no sexual advances toeard said to a male friend that thought I was in love with her, that I was clueless sexually.

And still am.

A friend told me that if I believe in open marriage I should be more assertive and take more chances with women other than my wife.

Hell, I don’t know how to act when I’m alone with my wife!

I know how to act sexy, dance sexy, hold a woman sensually but I don’t know how to kiss or make love.


It’s one of the major issues I’ve had, intimacy.

It’s why I wish I was dead rather than risk being alone with a woman and it become apparently obvious I’m all but a virgin.

It’s the secret I share with you here, the generic, invisible, nonexistent reader rather than share it with friends who might laugh at me or worse, try to break through the barrier that separates me from the universe.

Tonight, I am dead.


From birth to date, clueless.


Nothing left to achieve.

Nothing left to hope for.

No one who understands.

I give up.

I have no one to talk with.

Never have.

I am the Great Pretender!

Burnt coffee

Finished a midnight shift,

Serving my species by helping to save strangers’, maybe stranger, lives.

Sitting at the tire and oil change shoppe,

Sipping burnt coffee,

The styrofoam cup covered with black sugar sludge…

Listening to one man bragging,

His son having completed Navy Seal Team 7 training,

The father, a firefighter, keeping up, tandem skydiving nearby.

What does the coffee grower know of this?

Or the person picking coffee beans?

The coffee processing plant workers have an opinion, surely?

Do I?