I Have No Impulse Control…

… which is why I tell you these things:

You aren’t going to heaven or hell. It’s not that they don’t exist. It’s just we all got together with God and decided we didn’t want you in either place.

I’m still a little put off by the thought of two men having sex. I try not to be, but the idea that one of them might not get to stick his dick in anything seems desperately unfair, and the thought fills me with melancholy.

I was only half joking when I said that thing that really offended you and then backtracked and pretended it was all a hilarious gag.

Oh, and that other time, I wasn’t joking at all. But so soon after the last suicide attempt, I didn’t think you’d be able to take the truth.

I believe that you’re all part of the conspiracy to ruin my day. You are tasked to achieve this through little more than incompetence and miscommunication, because it has been noted somewhere that these are my Kryptonite.

I don’t actually understand what’s going on most of the time. Sometimes I can be sitting there, and literally not have a fucking clue what’s going on, so sometimes when I come out with inane non-sequiturs, it’s not just me “being wacky”… I’m trying desperately hard to hold on, to anchor myself, to gain some control over the maelstrom of signal and noise.
So I’d appreciate you not fucking belittling the effort.

And I suspect you don’t have the same excuse.

We only pretend to like him because of you. Secretly, we respect you a little less every day because you love him.

And when she’s bearable, it’s actually only because we like you enough that she’s practically elevated by that fondness.

The whole time I was sleeping with you, I was actually thinking of your best friend. You know, the one who introduced us? Yeh, well, she was off the cards, so I settled. But for what it’s worth, I never faked.

When I told you that I was okay with that fuck being no-strings, and that it wouldn’t affect our friendship. Well, uh, I lied.
And I did you a compilation cd.

Mmm, yeh, baby, you were really good. At least, I suspect you were, but I pretty much don’t notice anything you do from the moment you start touching it to the moment I orgasm. But you seemed really into it, and that’s got to count for something.

I think most of what we all felt when we saw Jennifer Connelly all grown up was actually relief more than lust. When we picture ourselves fucking having a meaningful relationship with her, I think it’s secretly still her in Labyrinth we’re thinking about. And the only thing that makes it feel weird in our heads is the same feeling we get visiting our old school, and finding that the seats are all too small, and the ceilings feel too low.

Sometimes I feel guilty about the things I say or think. But not nearly as often as I pretend to.

Secretly, I want there to be a war… a massive holy war, where the lines are drawn right down the middle of the human race’s festering, pestilent heart, and there’s fighting and blood in the street… so much hatred and anger pouring out of each side that they don’t resort to remote weapons, instead beating each other to death in the street with rocks and sticks. All the stupid people. And us unmotivated, generally logical people, I reckon we could survive the two weeks it would take them to bludgeon themselves into extinction in our basements, with some canned food, some DVDs, and maybe a copy of The Sims.
Yes, yes, you talk to me about the collapse of infrastructure, the lack of a service industry and utilities and such brought on by a sudden dramatic drop in population, but I honestly believe it’s a small price to pay for two weeks off work and uninterrupted computer gaming.

I really don’t feel anything when people I don’t know die. And it’s horrible, because I can’t join in in the outpouring of consolation on message boards, which can feel very lonely for me.

But on the plus side, if I get to your funeral, it means that I really sincerely cared about you.

Everything you say is shit. Every opinion you profess to hold is unmitigated, often arrogantly misled shit. Often, when it looks like you might be approaching a non-shit point of view, the whole thing builds logic-structure by logic-structure, but then ultimately dissolves down into suddenly exposed shit. At which point, we all think (but don’t say) “big fucking surprise, more shit spewing out of his shit-brain through his gobshitting shithole”.

But you do get the best drugs.

Sometimes I cry and cry and cry.

Actually, that last one wasn’t true. I just thought that I needed to soften your image of me after so much meanness.

Oh, fuck, that’s another one. Sometimes I try to manipulate people’s image of me. Just to see if I can. I know most people do it, but with me, it’s hypocrisy, because I genuinely believe I’m better than most people.

Um, anyway, it’s David Bowie’s fault… if he wasn’t trying to marry her the whole way through that movie, we might not have got so attached to her. And besides, it’s just wrong, him going around with that gigantic package… what the hell was all that about? Maybe The Labyrinth was secretly the point in our childhood where the battlelines in a young boy’s sexual psyche were drawn: You either came out the other end worshipping David Bowie’s predominant erection, or young Jennifer’s nascent charms.

In which case, we can blame him for Natalie Portman, too.

It’s not that I’m scared of you, or even dislike you particularly… You just reek so bad.

Every time I receive an e-mail from you that asks me to fill out this, or take that test, whether or not you normally don’t believe in such things, or it really works, I have to stifle an urge to explode violently down the internet at you. Regardless of how much I like or want to have sex with you.

And, incidentally, I never bother doing the test, either.

When I said I was bi-curious, that was kind of so that you’d let me fuck your wife. Now that that’s done, I think I’ll be off. Thanks for dinner, by the way. The meat was a bit salty and dry, but the potatoes were passable.

Oh, and, uh, you might want to wear shoes before going into that bathroom with the lights off.

I am appalling at finding anything of worth on the internet. If I send you a link to anything interesting, I have almost definitely been directed to it by someone more competent than me.

You is just a crazy ass bitch.

Sometimes in my head, I pretend that I didn’t get tested, just to add a frisson of danger to our love-making.

Every time I see you, I want to kiss you. Sometimes I come away amazed that you couldn’t tell.

There is a point at which your grief becomes so self-indulgent that it becomes a joke to me. It’s roughly the point where you feel the need to take it on telly. At that point, I no longer care that you lost your son, and just wish you’d lost your vocal chords at the same time. Grief, you fucknuts, is supposed to be a private affair. That privacy is the only way it can be carried with dignity. So if me playing a computer game in the comfort of my own home is somehow what caused this tragedy that you’re now living out loud, well, good. I’m glad I could enable your small celebrity, and will be happy to do it again some time soon.

I’m only being attentive, nodding and smiling because I think there’s a chance you might let me do filthy things to you tonight.

Every now and then, quite rarely actually, I really just can’t be arsed with the mentally ill. I mean, you know?

When I sing along to dirty or violent songs whose lyrics I don’t know, the words I come up with are normally much worse than the ones that got the record banned in five countries.

Sometimes I kill abortion doctors just because I know I can get away with it. Which really isn’t that shocking, except that I’m pro-choice.

Uh… that’s kind of why I threaten the families of animal researchers, too. Sorry. It’s just, you know, when else am I going to get the chance?