A Way to Explain My Dirty Mind

This all adds with my thoughts of being quite the alien, but that is another discussion entirely, because it gets into emotions surrounding thoughts and the like. I've been reticient to actually discuss much of this lately, just because it seems that when I talk about it, people seem to be turned away, or they decide that they understand me and need to orbit me...assuming that I'll just **** anything that walks. But, here... there's very little danger of any of that.

I'll see if I can explain with a scant fifteen minutes, but be aware that this goes on much more than anyone might guess.

[Names have been changed to protect the innocent (or not-so-innocent)]

I was sitting here at my computer working on a piece of scholarly writing. It's some very dry stuff, not terribly exciting at all. I don't want to give details because that might actually tip my hand at my identity, but try to imagine sitting down with a set of stereo assembly instructions written in Greek, and then make an attempt at paraphrasing and contrasting them with the instructions that you have for your stove. Now you get the idea of where my mind was when this rather fanciful exchange took place.

As I said, I was sitting at my computer tacking away at the keys to create some writing that will forever live within the walls of academia. While I'm typing, I feel something moving at the crotch of the flannel comfy pants I'm wearing, and out of the fly pops my ****. He waves at me and hops up on my shoulder. Tapping me in the ear, he says, "Hey Steve, what's up?"

Annoyed, I reply, "You know what's up, ****. We just had this conversation about 5 minutes ago."

"Oh yeah," he says, "You're still writing that lame paper, aren't you?"

"Ayup. Lame as always."

"So, Steve... I was thinking... You know that hot little brunette with the piercing in her clitoral hood? I was thinking... I wonder how the metal makes her ***** taste. What do you think?"

"I think I'm going to fail the class that I'm writing this thing for, ****."

"Remember last week when you were thinking about auto-********? You're at a computer now... You should look it up before you forget again."

[A few moments later...]

"Wow... Steve... I don't think you could pull that off."

"But you are currently sitting by my ear, ****. That's got to make it easier."

"Dude, it's just artistic license. Metaphor, you know. You can't really suck me. I'm not really sitting on your shoulder. Look at the video again. I could get hard for you and you could try it, but I think you'd break your neck trying to pull that off."

"Yeah," I sighed, "You're right. But, do you suppose I could get back to writing this thing? Then we'll talk some more later, okay?"

"Oh yeah, definitely, Steve. Wow, man... do you remember that little blonde we used to ****? Oh my god she was crazy. Remember when she wanted you to **** her in that church? She called you last week... remember? We should... ... ..."


So, yeah. Just repeat that sort of scenario about 60-80 times per day and you have a good picture of the way my mind works. Now, if we're talking about dreams I have at night, that's something a little different. Not much, just a little.
TransparentEyeball TransparentEyeball
36-40, M
Mar 31, 2007