Controlled anarchy

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 home and stick my dick in her. I don't write 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, for both of us - 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 is 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. Makes me regret that I have wants to begin with. What's the point of wanting or desiring if you cannot act out according to your desires? Well, I have come to believe that I don't need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. Complacent maybe, but alive and 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. It let's me live in the dreams of others. I have grown a group of friends I would have never would have given the time of day before. If this was before, I would have readily punched these "friends" of mine the face if I were to merely see them show their faces at a bar. Granted, I would've been drunk and on a war path for pussy, but I could have devised some justification to take a stand for some cause they were unaware they were offending somehow, and find the feistier one of the crew and taken him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining one's fighting out of pride or loyalty, laughing and guffawing at each impact. That to me was indulgence. That to me was life. I own everything.

Now I have these friends because they don't want me drunk. They don't want me dead. They don't really even want me. I'm just there. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. 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 one as the last weekend. They really don't care. It really doesn't matter to them or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care, that would consequently spawn expectation of "catching up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke large cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it is appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it is 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 my neighbors cabinet. I reads "Amoxapine" (an anit-depressant) but I tell them it's diclofenac and that it is an instant relief for me. Only it isn't. It's just another lie. Smarties. I swallow smarties as my psychosomatic cure to suppressing all of my desires. If I can make it this far I can change my perspective to actually become engrossed in these activities, to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. My desires will shrink, and soon enough disappear. This will be my life. These will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. I may even mary one of these women on my arm. I will have a system and I will live it out until I die. I'm slowly loosing some indications that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaineous indulgences. I am slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior. Unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders and addictions and confusion I must purge before I can face another human. I'm loosing my ability to loose control. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, contoling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a diclofenac in down my throat almost by second nature now, but it does nothing other than save face. My eyes still swell and tear up. My every hair still tingles and my face warms with rushing blood. I think of painful harm I could do to everyone in these moments. I think of having sex with icons of purity; only to defile them. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. 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 migranes. This woman works at a cafe, sleeps at nine every night only to wake and do yoga at 6. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as being the guidance for all our pre-destined 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 a neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle that gives her the courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world. 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 slam 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 any of the women on my shoulder at weekend parties. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly and why then, 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. I take 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.