Controlled Anarchy: reworked

I don't practice anarchy. I simply think about it all the time. I actually base the majority of my decisions on whether I want to do something or not, then act according to the exact opposite of my desires. Like this woman for instance. She wants me to come to her home and stick my dick in her. I don't say this as a boast or in confidence or anything with intentions what-so-ever, I state it because she actually told me those words. It was in jest of course - at least the vulgarity and directness was funny, to her - but the imploring was true as time. She rubbed the denim surrounding my crotch to further her sincerity. I know the true desire I have is to take this woman to her home and ravish her; explore, caress and fuck her. That's what women like her want. That is what she is proposing. And that is also what I want. But I'm not going to. I'm not going to because it is what I want. And more times than not I find that acting on what I want leads to a painful experience. A condom might break, or better yet, she may have no condom, and neither do I - which won't prevent us from the act, and all I am to wonder is, "Who is this woman? She may leave me with a rash that requires constant application of cream. What number am I on her tally chart of men she's picked up from a bar and rubbed the crotch of?"
But, I really don't care about these questions to be honest. I really want this to happen. I actually want this slut. But I need these questions. I need a quantity of arguments to deter me from my lust. Deter me from the unexpected. I have come to believe that I do not need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. To base a decision on. Contented? Complacent maybe, but suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy: acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. Like, recently, I've made acquaintances, friends maybe. I've simply acted as if it were their birthdays. Given compliments. Inquired about certain ventures of theirs, but never getting too personal to look overtly interested. Just enough to keep a plateau of verbal exchange present. Instead of lashing out at these stupid peoples' ideas, goals and dreams, I, instead, simply live in their dreams. Give in to their reasoning and invite conversation about it. I warm to those I hate. And they, in turn, gravitate toward me.
Things are normal, finally. Finally having a group of people desiring my attention. Even if it was of recent, before I founded this philosophy, that I would have despised these people I surround myself with now. I would have sought to spite them at every opportunity I got. Would've readily punched any of these "friends" in their smug, wine-tasting demeanors if they were to merely show their faces at any of the many bars I used to frequent. Granted, I would've been on an alcohol bender and on a war path for pussy, as I've hinted is inherent in my nature, inherent in all our nature (natures? - is a part of being human) which would have led me to illustrate my alpha-male dominance by devising some justification to take a stand for some cause they would've been unaware they were offending somehow, and on my plot to destroy them, first find the feistier one of the crew and take him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining ones fighting out of their own pride or their loyalty to their fallen leader, and I would be laughing and guffawing at each impact... That to me was indulgence. That to me was freedom. That was my life: I own everything.
So, I reversed my methods. And now I own nothing. I do nothing out of self-interest other than to avoid who I was. I now have these friends. These people. These "clingers" to conventionality. These friends don't encourage me to drink. They don't want me drunk. I've kept a great rapport with this group; ingratiating myself congenially; I no longer make enemies. No one wants me dead. No one here really even wants me at all. I'm just there. A reflection of the perfect manners everyone around me yearns to attain. I exude what they strive for with exactitude. And my behavior is what they gravitate towards; not me. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. And I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same girl as the week before. They really don't care. And it doesn't matter to them, or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care. That would consequently spawn expectations to "catch up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. And we laugh as we mispronounce it repeatedly. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it's appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it's appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured...
I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from from my neighbors cabinet. It reads "Amozphine" (an anti-depressant) but I tell them it's "Diclofenac," a pain reliever. And I fake that the medication relieves pain instantly. Only, I tell them it's prescribed so I don't offer it to anyone, nor do I concede to give hand-outs when others feign a headache. If they were to know what is really in this bottle, my facade would be ruined. My image of a purely sociable being would crumble. It's a bottle of lies: a bottle I filled with smarties. I swallow candy as my psychosomatic cure to these uncontrollable spasms that cripple me.
I feel, that since I've made it this far. Since I've altered my reality thus, that soon enough I will be able to change my perspective of these people, these interactions, this lifestyle. I aspire to become engrossed in these activities. I aspire to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. This life will become habitual. And in the near future I portend that these desires will diminish due to my self conditioned instinct to act opposite of them; dismissing them habitually will cause them to vanish. Then, these will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. And I may even marry one of these women on my arm. The marriage will be a part of my system. And I will live it out until I die.
I've already felt recently that I've gained some ground. I've indicated a decline in the fear I have that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaneous indulgences. I'm slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior, unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders, addiction and confusion. Stints of loathing and blaming all of the world because it has no order, no foundation; it's chaotic. It takes me weeks of recovering from these fits before I can face the senseless world again. And during this recovery I reflect on my experience and find that with in these anarchistic delves into recklessness, with in these masochistic cycles I go through that brings me back to a point of reflection, there is a pattern, and it's only ironic that when I think that life abhors order and systems - I create one. I'm a contradiction. And I reached a point where I could ignore no longer. So, I've submitted. Instead of being ignorant, I've decided to become deliberate. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, controlling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe. The horrible cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a Diclofenac down my throat almost by second nature now, but I wish the smartie would actually do something for me. Relieve these tense muscles and soften the beating pulses in my head. These pills do nothing but save face in the presence of these friends. I just wait it out. Let them think the medication is settling in. I wait until my eyes stop swelling to the frequency of my throbbing brain, and I embarrassingly wipe them when they tear up. I wait until every hair stops tingling and and my face cools down from the warm rushing blood. I want to get rid of the pain so badly. I want to give this pain to world which created it. This world, these people are what I have and all I have. But in these moments I cannot bear it. I think of painful harm I could do to others in these moments. I think of how much I want to crush people with set moralities. How do they do it and not cringe like me!? Why is this what they want? Why do I have to want what they want just to be acknowledged? I hate this purity. This order. This way of life. I think of having sex with icons of this purity; only to defile them. I think of where we'll all be near the end of a life like ours. We'll be dressed up and old. Still wearing these costumes and smiles. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. Just to show her that even after so many years of paying homage to a way of life that is supposed to protect you, the unexpected can still occure. And I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migraines. This woman works at a cafe, goes to bed at 9pm every night only to wake and take a yoga class at 6am the next morning. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as this entity that embodies the guidance for all our predestined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and her neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because of some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle of tablets that act as her courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world one day at a time. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to smash my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not the woman on my shoulder at weekend parties. And I don't understand that. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly? Every time I see her I want to coerce her to admit she's such a shameless contradiction. But, then again, why, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. These complicated mixed emotions are why I eat another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.