My Life As A Moneyshot

Sometimes I feel like there’s entirely too much stuff coming out of me. Maybe it’s because as a male, my primary purpose (as far as the gene-pool is concerned anyway) is to empty genetic matter out into any available orifice.

Lately that seems like a good metaphor for my life.

My job, my relationships, and my bank account: it seems as if all I do is expel my substance out into every possible outlet. Then I drink, sleep, get up and do it again. Masturbation is the single most accurate description of my life.

Because it’s all fun. I like working hard, I like being creative, and I like being involved with people. But it’s all starting to feel pointless. For the males in crowd, have you ever jerked off more frequently than usual? Think back to high school or a really slow weekend. Have you beaten it like 8 times in a day? It gets to be sickly feeling. You’re totally drained and just going through the motions.

Maybe I need to just cut everyone and everything off for about a week or a month. That way I can at least shoot a load worth bragging about.

I may or may not be involved in a break-up at the moment. I really have no idea. That’s probably a good reason why I’m so emotionally drained. The devil of the whole thing is that I’m uncertain about what the fuck happens next. I feel like hell because I’m uncertain, and I’m uncertain because I feel like hell.

I honestly feel really badly for the girl involved with all of this. Because it’s not her fault. She’s doing her job (and more besides, because I’m a complete psychopath) by being supportive and sweet and trying to get commitment out of a boy who can’t even figure out where he’ll be 20 minutes in the future.

I’m the asshole here because I don’t know what I want. I feel a general discontent with life recently. Maybe I force myself through too many proverbial daily money-shots.

Over masturbation is a form of self-abuse. It feels more painful than pleasant. You know it’s going to suck and you do it anyway. So maybe I’m just trying to abuse myself. Fuck you for being happy! Fuck you for having outlets for all your sexual, creative, and intellectual lecheries. Perhaps I’ve reached a point where I’m just trying to completely…well…fuck myself.

• My meats been jerked like it was the only ingredient in a Jamaican kitchen.
• I’ve beaten my dick more than the passengers on the Amistad.
• My cock’s had more debilitating strokes than Luther Vandross.

Enough of this shit. I’m going to beat off. Maybe tonight I’ll finally be able to zip my pants up and get on with my life.