090619

On the way home, I came across a fox that had just been hit. I think I saw the truck that probably hit it, as I pulled up to the turn a little too fast and had to slow reverse it back just a tad. He was going slow up this hill, too slow for the speed limit and way slower than the usual drivers. I thought it was me. He passed and I turn and there he is, gets up from laying down and starts to limp up the road away from me, front paw out.

Gary pointed out that it was probably one of Mom’s Foxes, one of the many denizens who plague the front yard of her house, where she keeps a veritable feeding ground in the front yard. It started out as just seed for the birds, and then bread for the birds (and squirrels), and then bread for everything else that perused through, and then old meat and stew and vegetables and whatever else she felt like tossing out there (except cooked chicken bones) for the squirrels and raccoons and foxes (red &! gray) and possums and the fucking hedgehogs that have made their giant tunnels underneath the garage.

It could be an interloper. I was far enough away that it could have been an entirely different territory – the woods are vast and dense.

Gary would be a shit and tell her this, just to remind her that he is who he is. I don’t think I will. Nor about the raccoon I hit a few months back, that rolled up through the wheelwell and actually popped my hood ajar, which I found about the following day after driving another league.

Vehicular car death is a peculiar thing, how most of roadkill is simply cast off and forgotten about by the next song on the radio. I was in college, so I had to be 18 or 19, driving along with two friends through an unknown city and I hit a suicidal cat in a 35mph neighborhood, it flew right past me and clipped the wheel and that was all she fuckin’ wrote. My friend in the front seat turns to me and says “Don’t worry about it.” And we drive off. Less than a year after that I almost die in a head-on collision. Thirteen years later that guy kills himself. Peculiar little coincidences.

I haven’t jerked off in a week. There is some credence to the No Masturbation movement, as there are physiological effects. Some are more prone to certain effects than others. One thing that happens is my emotional sensitivity goes up, higher than normal, which is normally pretty high anyway after living with a narcissistic alcoholic for the majority of my stupid years. The ability to read little facial ticks is a skill, one learned over many years, that proves useful in many situations, like walking into a room and immediately feeling the wavelength everyone is operating on, or feeling if someone is a bit, off-tune, so to say. I’m normally acute to how everyone around me is feeling. When I don’t masturbate, that skill goes way, way up. That’s one of the “superpowers” I gain, I guess. Gary considers it a superpower, as he knows what he can do with it, and the power that it contains. I’m not skilled on using it to manipulate people, or even at the least advance my own standing in life with it. It’s one of the skills that we are working on together, as we can at least talk shop about it without tearing each other’s throats out over it.

Visited a friend tonight, one who said he would help me with a project that I felt I needed to do, for someone else. He has an issue with my motivations. Went over there tonight and he seemed quite distant. Didn’t look me in the eyes much, perhaps even less than he usually does (which is less often than most other people, in general observations). I notice eye contact more when I don’t jerk off, so I guess this could be considered another one of the mythical “superpowers” but really that’s just because eye contact is a skill too and not many people are skilled at it these days. And I categorically notice it in myself when I find myself fappin’ it up way too often in a short time. It’s to the point where cashiers, old lady ugly unfuckable hippos, are a challenge to keep eye contact with. When I find myself in a place where I’m keeping it, and conscious of eye gazing, I notice most people can’t do it themselves. Either I’m a serial killer who just hasn’t found out yet, or there’s something larger going on here. Regardless, his lack of attention was noticed.

I’m mentioning not jerking off this often as I’m prepping for change by the end of the year, and controlling this urge is turning into one of the direct things I’m going to conquer. And it didn’t even start as nofap, though I’m quite familiar with the concept and “the literature”. It started out as a response to extremely turbulent, outside stress in my life, that brought me to a literal point of sexual disinterest. It might have started out as a drunken blue-balls response to jerking off way too much too, but the sexual disinterest is a new thing to me. I’ve never been at the point where I’ve thought about going to find some easy ass (it’s available, I’ve explored many of the options) and I’d rather just go home and read a fucking book or work on something I need to work on. The dick is kinda limp. It’s not dead, it’s just… meh. The only time it’s done that was when it was almost dead, after that head-on collision. But that’s almost dead. This is just… meh. He’s bored. He doesn’t giver eh fucker. I imagine it will pass. At that point, Gary has a few pointers on what I should do, and I think this time I just might listen to him and actually go and have some fucking fun in life for once. If I can get out and away, anyway. Aforementioned stress response. The response is responsibility. Responsibility of not anything of my fault, that has been thrust upon me and those around me, of which I am choosing to sacrificially help attend to and forego any forward movement in my own affairs. At some point I am going to E.B. Farnum this motherfucker and burn it down, but I’m not yet to that boiling point.

Gary will have a few choice things to say about it if he were ever given the quill, but we’re keeping the ink locked up for now.