It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life, trepination

exchanging sanity for its younger, slightly better looking brother who just happens to enjoy using amphetamines recreationally

By dusty (April 24, 2008)

The day I was raped of my manhood had all the ingredients of a horror movie. It was a day filled with terror and bliss and pain and screaming and vomit and nudity and choking babies and blood and probably urine. Also it was the day I was born.

You might expect the day I was raped of my manhood to be the day I first entered the workplace, or the day I turned 18, or the day I moved into my own house, or the day I started school. But you would be wrong. Sure, there were times when my manhood was called into question before that fateful day; but none as extreme as being pulled out of a placenta-caked cavity of blood and bodily tissue while pieces of me were being cut off and thrown away.

Things had been going swimmingly in the preceding years: I had beaten all my friends to the fabled uterus to copulate with its beautiful queen egg (who we’ll call Eleanor); survived on nothing but courage and grit (and also a small tube that involuntarily injected various vitamins and fluids into me).

I was in it for the long haul. Trapped in that cave of organs for nine long months, never once did I give up. I persevered, I conquered (and kicked sometimes). I accepted my living quarters and, over time, even grew to enjoy them. It was lonely at times, sure, but there was a certain primitivism to it — a sort of willful disintegration of my pride and spirit (much like prison, except the prison cell was a uterus and the walls were built out of flesh.)

But nothing lasts forever, and just like nothing, neither would this. I was prepared to leave, I really was, but I never expected the horror freakshow that was thrust upon me that winter morning.

In a fit of Nazified rage they came after me — waking me to screams of pain and bleeding, my fragile face pulled through a vaginal cavity surely too small to navigate through. Things began to blur: blood, blood, screaming, vomiting, vaginal walls, more blood, what-is-happening, help, help. I was dying, I was sure of it (or at least going through some kind of Anne Frankian reincarnation). Still dying, though, regardless.

They pulled me out and cut pieces off me, hung me upside down like a prized, freshly slain hog on display in a slaughterhouse. They hit me, alternating the hits with hugs (???) and strange coddling (!?). My manhood was gone. I had become a cog in the machine of emptiness — a vacuous being released from a prison of somatic cells to be beaten and tortured mercilessly in a world of same.

The day I was raped of my manhood.

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It's like: feelings (ew), this american life, trepination

how to survive multiple bear attacks in successive days:

By dusty (March 6, 2008)

Today, I am sad.

And it has nothing to do with bears or the attacks of bears. Mostly I am sad because I have been contaminated with PMS, probably from a female acquaintance. If you are unfamiliar with this disease, I will fill you in: it is a ruthless virus that makes women bleed from their souls and gives them a thirst for the blood of men.

Also it makes them cry a lot.

Somehow (life is unfair, I realize) I have contracted this horrible beast of a virus, and now I find myself doing nothing but thinking about feelings and feelings and feelings (and also food, sometimes. Oh, and booze).

Anyway, as such, I am sad.

How long will this last? Are my days numbered? Was it a good idea to leave my phone at home so as not to allow anyone to contact me? What is going to happen to me? Why is there a pig on TV?? So many unanswered questions, and with them, I begin this blog. In it, you will get to know the real me — the myth behind the man, the monster that lives deep under my metaphorical bed.

Comments: (2)