I think it was somewhere in the middle of the video...the 35 year old ripped male, hereforward referred to as the 'student' was standing, pounding a mid 30's obviously modified fake'n'bake cumwhore hereforward referred to as 'teacher'.
A bright and shining star of an editor somewhere in a smoky Los Angeles apartment cut the scene straight to a cowgirl shot on top of the 'teacher's desk' where, as the 'student' thrust himself up into the 'teacher' with the most reckless of abandon, the teacher loudly screamed "Fuck me like it's Extra Credit!"
I think that's when I realized that I was wasting a bit too much time doing nothing with my weeknights but drinking, surfing bad porn and thinking about what I *could* be doing with my time to make things better. And so instead of getting up and doing something productive, I thought I'd come back here. I've always enjoyed writing and who knows, perhaps I'm slowly discovering a new medium for me.
Hi everyone. I'm Jeremy. If you're reading this, then chances are we've met. If we haven't and you just stumbled upon this, you've managed to trip over the threshold into a room occupied by me; a 33 year old alcoholic sweating under a hot laptop...a plastic cup holding something resembling sterno mixed with Coca-Cola sitting to my left...a pair of headphones blasting Suicide Commando into my head because I'm half-heartedly seeking a more positive space than this.
A little about me. I've got this job, they call it IT Project Manager. I call it "look busy, someone's coming". Seriously. I *might* work a quarter of my day, and instead of spending the other three quarters at home being personally productive (thus making me a happy worker during the 25% I give) I'm expected to sit and stare at a screen. This may increase to 50% however, as my counterpart has recently been diagnosed with a wicked case of dying.
I also have this wife. Her name is Tina. If I take myself from one of my childhood nightmares and then imagine what the nightmares of that kid would be, Tina comes close to being the antagonist. Keep in mind, my assessment of her presence in my life is totally subjective; your mileage will obviously vary. But I know what she is to me, and that's not good.
And then there's Isa...my 8 year old. I love her so much; everyday I regret being responsible for her life and I do it completely out of sympathy.
I live in Wisconsin. Madison. A small conglomeration of buildings and attitudes in the center of an enormous farm field...one third of the year an enormous snow pile. That's when it's really nice here. The rest of the time it's okay...you learn to miss the bustle but simultaneously appreciate the isolation. Unfortunately, there are still quite a few Bush votes in this town, and their attempts to speak coherently are akin to noise pollution.
I ride my bike, I ski and I LOVE horror films. There's something about a person's ability to strike fear into the heart of another via a medium intended to entertain. How ironic it is.
I also for some reason catch myself crushing on people that wear vanilla and/or patchouli. Fuckin' patchouli? Am I still in High School?
I'm wondering if the content of this mail is dripping enough to draw my lurker out of hiding. I miss her.
I just heard "Bohemia" by Mae Moore and it pulled me back about 16 years. I remember hearing that song in the car when things were good; when I had my friends, myself and nothing in between. No children. No spousal filters. No need to be anything but myself.
I now spend my days in varying degrees of masquerade. I only feel free to be myself when I meet someone much like me, and even then that lasts for a mere moment.
And so here I am, back to filtered, muddled and utterly wasted Me with a capitol M. I want to love Me. I try...and then I take another look at the carnage I've left in my wake and wonder how I'll ever forgive myself for the mess I've made of not only my life but the lives of others.
So I know that I sit here now saying I'm going to return to livejournal. That facebook is stupid and social networking is a step in the wrong direction. But chances are I won't come back here for another 6 months or so. I haven't the discipline where I should.
Much much love to all of you who come across this. Don't ever consider a word I say a cry for help...if I were to cry for anything, it would be for anyone to zig instead of zag and not follow the path I've tread. If I can talk someone off my trail, I'll have done something good with my life.
Unfortunately we continue to live lives that doom us to these perpetual fights against unhappiness; as if happiness were the natural way of things and unhappiness was some intruder.
I hate to say it, everyone, but in my experience it's seriously the other way around.