Lately it seems that whatever turns your crank the most (or doesn’t, for all you asexy lovelies) merits the orientation denotation.

Well. In that case, who’s to say I’m not a

hottiesexual?

EGG-SHAPED SLEEVE

Ahh, Ten-ga.

Jelly is fun, sure. You can pluck it, you can squeeze it. You can even knead it, like a cat ready to do it. But delectable as gels may be, I prefer my longterm toys something solid. I like to keep glass objects in my toolbox. They look like sculptures, in certain circles, with none the wiser.

(giant candy cane on Christmas morning, tally ho)

I’ve even got a special thermometer of my own. To be hygienic, naturally I keep a few wrappers around, individually packaged, and I stash them magically on a tabletop.

GENIE LAMP

A HIDEY SPOT

In the course of these acquisitions,
I’ve accumulated a bit of wisdom and know-how.

  • Thy local grocer/convenience store shall stock condoms only of the lubed variety. Thus I have seen, thus it shall always be.
  • The internet offers competitive pricing. No need to buy from sex shops, unless purchasing clothing. Figures come in all dimensions. Sizing measurements do too.
  • The upside to patronizing brick-and-mortar stores: reusable bags, the nice kind. With tissue paper on top. All the ones I’ve seen are brandless or logo’d with a monogram. Bonus points if a recipient of your new ‘gift bag’ recognizes its design.

This information could come in handy. Next year, maybe. Or anytime, really. Just so you know.

I’ve been clean – I’ve been au naturel – for at least a couple months now. No chemical cocktails prescribed for me. Last time I did this, a certain mindset developed. I don’t regret this. Sure, it reflects reality in an unflattering light, perhaps distorting the angles or flattening the picture here and there, and the perspective is, in theory, something to pontificate at leisure. Only, death-affirming philosophies are something of a drag. They be creepin’ when I have downtime. (And I have a lot of downtime.) The situation, I gotta say, is totes characteristic of my general aversion toward action.

Really, it seems like I’m a broken or faulty model and don’t want to be fixed.

Probably to do with the programming up in here; I’m starting to think that all my problems are psychosomatic. But with the mind-body feedback loop, it’s hard to tell where a thing begins. Some testing for symptoms could be done, if I can achieve retrograde amnesia and dump my current ego for a near-blank slate.

This life ain’t the movies.

I guess I’m stuck in my head, except when I sleep. And even then, dreams do happen. REM’s a mixed bag, after all.

But. As far as entertainment goes, dreaming’s top notch. For one, it’s immersive. For another, it’s time well spent, sleeping. There’s not much that can compare.

But the real reason I dropped gaming was aspirational.

Fictional characters have more glamorous vices, or they live their lives to the full. My hobby was boring escapist fare, and not a very attractive one at that.

The funny thing about this escapism, though, is that it’s sometimes the lifeline that keeps you sated. Keeps you drugged. I was ready to kick a few habits to begin living my life, and look where I’ve gotten.

I’d rather be upcycled than repaired.

Organ donation is where it’s at.

Though, maybe it’s not upcycling if the recipient isn’t a Steve Jobs? Whatever. Some sparkle can glam up the remainder, make me nice and flashy, gauche but not cheap.

Diamonds are forever, right?

Forever hard.

Herp derp!

That bling’s low maintenance stuff. Lump sum and you’re set.

But first, I’ve got to work. I’ve got to work to make that moolah. I’ve got to work out – and work it well – if I’m going to live fast (like in fiction) and leave behind a beautiful corpse.

And I have. I’ve gone to the gym, seven times in two weeks. Not a bad start. Not to mention, in my quest not to remain a bag of goo, I discovered a fun little fact:

 Sexy and I Know It
is the best weight-training song a wannabe can ask for.

It’s not easy being Asian. Just when I thought I’d done a good job avoiding Emo hair – WHAM.

No. No, no. I’ve had my tail lopped for a week and a half now. You’re going to tell me that the remainder points to what is known as the Hitler Youth trend?

Just. Can’t. Win.

HEDONIC CREDIBILITY

LADY RAE:
I wonder if I’m still allowed to indulge in teenage angst
Or if I have to call it something else, now

YOURS TRULY: I find that ‘quarter-life crisis’ has worked out quite well for a floormate of mine.

LADY RAE: Brilliant!

YOURS TRULY:
Plus there’s an assertion floating around that, by the age of 20, we really have lived out half our lives, from a relative point of view.
So, relatively speaking, we could keep it simple and call it midlife crisis instead.

LADY RAE: I refuse to believe I’m half-way done

YOURS TRULY:
Whereas I’m of the “Who wants to live forever anyway?” camp.
.
Also, I’ve been telling people

LADY RAE: You have?
How have they been taking it?
.
…sorry. Go on.

YOURS TRULY: I’ve been telling select people
that when I’m done with life, I want my remains cremated and compressed into a diamond
and then traded to a drug lord
.
and everyone can get as high as a kite on my dime.

LADY RAE: Oohhhh

YOURS TRULY: Personally, I think it beats having a funeral pyre
and would cement me as a hedonist for life and after death.

LADY RAE: That it would
And as the life of the party, too

YOURS TRULY: Some people save for nest eggs. Not me. If/when I do accrue the money, I’ll start compiling the guest list and thinking about the ‘reception’.
But that’s at least two decades away.
Maybe there’ll be something newfangled by then to try.

LADY RAE: Planning for death so young
You’re enough to make every dead poet from Shakespeare to now wiggle in their graves

YOURS TRULY: Hey, keep some relativity in perspective.

LADY RAE: I’m not judging!

YOURS TRULY:
I’m, like, forty when I go walking down memory lane.

LADY RAE: I’m just saying. Think of the corpses, N
The corpses

YOURS TRULY: The corpses are worm food. I wanna be a distributed set of donated organs and a rock on a drug lord’s finger.
Maybe I’ll donate my brain to research.
…maybe I’ll be revived as a cyborg.

LADY RAE: !
If that happens, I want to be involved
Can I have your brain?
That way, when they get around to cyborg technology
and are looking for donations
I can say, “Here! Have this one!”

YOURS TRULY:
Hmm. I was thinking of directly approaching researchers myself.
But if you have the storage and the ice…

LADY RAE: I’ll plan ahead