The most shameful onanism

In the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind there is a scene where the main character, Joel, is trying to hide in his most humiliating thoughts, and finds himself transported in a placetime in the past where he is in his bed as a teenager masturbating to crude drawings of feline humanoids with breasts. Which reminded me, haven't we all? As men, there are points is our lives, particularly in adolescence when our instilled social shame has yet to fully accommodate with what we come to call "our Personality", where we find ourselves working toward an orgasm via stimuli of things, images or thoughts, that later in time seem simply outworldly. Did I really do that? Was I really that sad? Over time an unconcious burrowing of those sickening but overall minor memories make us easily forget about those situations possibly to never resurface all the way to the grave. And yet, they've happened, we forgot them, we wanted to forget them, we didn't try to forget them, but they're gone. Perhaps it's for the best, perhaps there's a safety mechanism in the human brain that makes it simpler to exude these, not really painful but disconcerting parts of our history, these crude rooves on our Starry Night, these typos in the notes of our Lusiads, these out of tune violins on the edge of our ensemble playing the Canon in D, so that in the unlikely event that someone picks truth in a Truth or Dare game (no one picks truth) and ask "What was the most messed up think you jerked off to?" you can guiltlessly say "I don't know" ("I don't remember").

The double Saturday

 "It was Saturday yesterday an it will be Saturday again tomorrow."
The week end is a myth, at first it may seem you have three whole days to (blanket term) "rest", from Friday night to Sunday night, but Friday isn't a rest day, or a rest night, it's a day when you feel the entire weight of the week on you, on Thursday you say it's almost over but by the end of Friday when you can finally put down your bag of rocks and lie down, but you can't, for long, you'll have to go out, they come get you, they see the reluctance in your eyelids, and that's something to ignore easily while dangling the promise guarantied reward of a "good time". Sunday, despite beginning as the original week's end is nowadays the farthest thing from that, it is a gloomy day, a day when it should rain, a day about worrying about the impeding Monday, about doing whatever you were supposed to do Saturday, about waiting, about reluctantly shifting gears back to the useful days. The only true day of the weekend is called Saturday in English, there is nothing better than a Saturday morning, waking up, and having a choice if you want to wake up, and if you chose to, doing nothing for the rest of the day. The most rewarding thing to do is indeed to do nothing, sit or walk around and passively contemplate the bliss of inactivity with the knowledge that tomorrow there's another free day. The next day you wake up again and before the grey Sunday mood begins to creep up to your bed sheets you recall that Monday is a Holyday and that you are, in fact, about to experience another, back to back, Saturday of loafing all over again before a postponed Sunday in the mask of a Monday. That's the defining moment of the second Saturday, the first bite of your almond and chocolate Magnum on a hot Summer afternoon, the first dry headfirst dive into a neighbor's pool, that instant when you realize your favorite song is playing as background music at a loud and crowded mall. You can't help but smile and thank the world for letting you live in it.

Movitation

 

If you feel you've got something to say and you can't get it out.
You stop and write it down, okay?

Let it go

 Have you ever dropped a piece of what you were eating, something small like a tiny piece of tuna, while you were lying down on a sofa watching television, and without averting your eyes from the screen fondled around with your hand until you found it, a smallish thing, like a piece of sweet corn, and popped it into your mouth only to realize on the first bite that you've just munched on a piece of something disgusting that was lying around which you're scared to even imagine what it is, certainly not a solitary grain of rice, and straining your eyes you keep it in your mouth for little over a second before swallowing it in a cavernous fashion trying to avoid at all costs contact with the papilla of the tongue, you're not going to spit it out on your floor, even if it was just a harmless section of a meatball, and it's not dreadful enough to call for a mad dash to the nearest window or sink, exclamation point.
Next time something falls off your plate or hand, something like a stray pea or something, let it go, no, take it and chug it behind you. Now you're safe.