What are my views on premarital sex? It is probably the single-most blatant source of problems in the community of teenagers to young adults that has ever existed. That’s right, this assumably liberal entity does not have a “It’s your choice, have fun,” standpoint on sex. I’ve never been quite sure why I possess this oddly-placed view, among a slew of tolerant and understanding ones. However, it is really not in my capacity to give a fuck about the problems you have because you’re having sex. Which leads me to a tie-in with my viewpoint on abortion.
It may very well come down to that I am quite unsympathetic towards people who make decisions that I regard as poor, no matter how the light shines. Also, to clarify, let me spin this scenario in the light that is cast inside my skull: I wish to engage in an act that is, by nature, the source of the procreation of our race and the resultant for which is inevitably children, but I want to do it for the carnal pleasure and momentary passion of it all. Oh, oh, wait, a single, moist tear is dripping down my cheek for your plight, my child — except, of course, not.
There’s something innately hedonistic about this behaviour, and I have never particularly cared for hedonism; which is, invariably, another source of my disdain for this practice. Hey, maybe it feels good, but it causes problems without exception. I don’t necessarily have to elaborate on these issues, and some of them are just plain and simple, but I can not help expounding on something just for the sake of elaboration and supporting ideas.
Probably the most subtle and overlooked result of having sex is the fact that it throws your fucking hormonal system into swirling chaos. Moreso for females than males, it is still the case that when you start having sex, you’re going to start processing shit in your head differently, and becoming emotionally altered. Sex is, in a way, a mood-altering drug, which is another reason I probably don’t condone the free distribution of it, on the corner . . . (I don’t condone prostitution, but I do see the obvious benefit in its legalisation, though — another time for that rant.)
In fact, that very well may be exactly why it sickens me to see teenagers and young people throwing it around like candy; it is, simply put, a mood-altering drug: sex is Ritalin. It dulls your senses, it glazes over reality, and it makes life a happy, colourful world. Perhaps, when all is said and done, I am an extreme realist, but denial of reality and emotion for the sake of pleasure just rubs me wrong. “I don’t like school, life is shit, my parents don’t understand me, I’m unsure of my purpose in this world — but I sure can fuck! Whoo!” Fucking fuck that idea, in its ass. If you want to use sex as an excuse to find happiness for a flitting minute or two, in bed, have fun at it, sure, but understand that I think you’re a weak-willed moron.
Sex for pleasure is denial of the nature of the act. It is an exploitation of a function built into our biology for the sake of hedonism. The act of sex is something that I’ve always chose to hold sacred, and, as with all things held sacred, corruptions of such a thing piss me off . . . They piss me off enough to come off sounding like a conservative Bible-thumper, honestly. I read back on the paragraphs that I’ve already typed out, and I know how Puritan and holier-than-thou they come off, and I really don’t care. I’ve seen too many people fuck-up their already fucked-up lives by adding sex to the equation, and I hear too many sob stories that ring empty to my ears because they wouldn’t exist, otherwise, if it weren’t for sex being involved.
“My parents would utterly kill me and disown me if they knew I was having sex, and now I’m pregnant! Wah!” Oh, bull-fucking-wah, bitches, I don’t want to hear it — you made the choice, and embrace the consequence. You put something in your vagina, something comes out, eventually — it’s like one of those grapple-machines, where you put in a quarter and have a slim, nigh-impossible chance of walking away with a cute, plush animal. And what’s abortion other than some poor kid’s excuse to avoid the consequences and keep shit hidden from their reality? Nine times out of ten, it’s going to be the same story — he fucked her, they don’t want the baby, and she has to go get her uterus hoovered — and I don’t give a flying fuck, because there was an easy way to avoid that, if you just gave up fifteen minutes staining sheets.
Already I know what I get for expression of such a view — oh, what about the rape victims? What about the rape victims, who have such a tiny, minuscule chance of getting pregnant while being raped that the percentage of rape victims who do hardly merits the need for free clinics on every third corner. I’m not so heartless as to deny this marginal amount of the population fair treatment — regulate and prescribe early-abortion pills, if need be. Give doctors the license to dole out such treatment to people who have been unwillingly impregnated. Is this ever going to happen? No, because people are too hung up on their morals and philosophies to compromise. The conservatives are sanctimonious, and the liberals are fucking hippies about it.
What it comes down to, with abortion and me, is that I don’t think Suzy the Sixteen-Year-Old Slut deserves a trip to the womb-cleaners because she fucks around, but I do think there are people who seriously need them. Rape victims, yes, and those who will experience horrid medical trauma if birth is given; also, if lethal gene combinations are detected in the fetus and it is inevitable that it will die when reaching the light, then prescribed abortion would not be an unviable option. I’m sick of hearing about how it’s “my body, my choice,” too, because it’s certainly the body of the cripples with two, inoperable legs that would like to have the choice of affording corrective measures to get them fixed — do you see them carrying fucking signs? That’s right, abortions are an avenue of society just like all other medical procedures and surgeries, and that means that it’s the decision of society to condone them. Do I like the fact that this is true, that society dictates access to resources and means to certain ends? Fuck no, but I accept it. Get a better argument, if you want intelligent people to listen.
You fuck. You’re fertile. It sucks to be you. Do I cry crocodile tears in the name of every teenage girl who has “unfortunately” been found to be pregnant at fifteen? No. Do I care about couples who suddenly find themselves with a crisis on their hands when they spent years and years playing the numbers, gambling that everything would go right and nothing would get inseminated, and finally lost at the roulette wheel? No. Is every single instance of every single variation on every single similar scenario avoidable? Yes, which is exactly why I have no sympathy for them — don’t put yourself in traffic and bitch that you got hit by a car. It’s the reason why roads were built: to cater to cars moving at a high velocity. You were born with genitalia for a pretty damn obvious reason, too, and the side-effects are great . . . Er, wait, nowadays the “side-effect” would be a baby, I imagine, and the main point of sex is carnal indulgence. Feh, fuck you, people.
Some people will tell me that half the pursuit of fun in life is taking risks. Right, and, somehow, it’s fun that people keep themselves in detrimental relationships for elongated periods of time due to “good sex?” It’s not fun when it’s trading another facet of pleasure in life for a superfluous and temporary replacement. You create these strings of connection that never break, these memories and feelings that are drilled and cemented into your brain, and then are surprised to find out that the effects were lingering years later? Moreoever, sex fuels the most degrading aspects of our society, and it keeps afloat some of the most demeaning and retarded practices. We buy overpriced clothing to get sex; we pay money for bad mixed drinks for sex; we attend establishments full of horrendous music and smoky bars for sex; we pander to other people’s emotions and squelch our own, all the while growing suppressed and psychologically-damaged, for sex; I hope it makes you happy, because it certainly makes you ugly.
By the way, in conclusion to the abortion argument, “it’s my body, it’s my choice,” in my mind, immediately translates to “it’s my body, I want to be able to misuse it and shirk the repercussions of such acts, all the while blaming society and everybody else for my own ignorant decisions.” I really only felt like putting that previous sentence in to heinously offend anyone who is, as of yet, not. Mission accomplished, I truly hope.
Not everyone treats sex as flippantly as I make it sound like everybody in the world does. And not everybody alive will experience the downside to sex — mostly because they don’t surface in all cases. And not everybody in the world will ever find themselves with sexually transmitted diseases, and wonder how it happened. Which is another thing: STDs continue to circulate and wipe out humanity only because people, apparently, refuse to act intelligently about sex. Oh, testing and discretion in the selection of my partner for the night? I’m too inebriated to worry about that, until after the fact; which, of course, is when I’ll start expecting people to recite my name in touching, heartfelt displays of sympathy for “victims” of a disease that I only contracted via my own actions. Aw, the porn industry is heavily swept with AIDS and herpes? Surprise! Jesus Christ, could the human race be a bit more of a horde of blithering, drooling fucktards about sex?
I sometimes — more oft than not — lose hope in the continuation of this species I belong to when I look around and see how people have corrupted sex. “It’s fun! Like a game! Let’s all do it, all the time!” We’ve been instilled with this natural drive to spread our kind like rabbits, and the best we can do is use it to sell beer? How about some creative applications of sex appeal in marketing and lifestyle choices, huh? It’d, at least, be amusing to see people parading about in favour of having sex with fruit, or candy, or donuts . . . Or something. Use a hot woman to sell tampons, I say. Why? Because the look of stricken terror on the machismo apes that slobber over supermodels would be priceless when they see Tyra Banks talking about her leaky labia. But, no, no, these things aren’t going to happen; instead, people will continue to use sex as a means of escapism and hedonism. Some people smoke pot, some people fuck on the fly — some people do both, and they never live long or healthily.
I really could rant on about this for hours, but I’m already encroaching upon that personal limit I’ve set for myself for any one given entry on this Blog. In conclusion: kittens are happy because they don’t fuck around with slutty teenagers. “Meow,” they say, as they paw at the ball of yarn dangling over their noses, and think about their intelligent life-choices to not engage in frivolous sex and to, instead, chase string. Meow, indeed, Mr. Kitten . . . Meow, indeed.
Adios.
I shouldn’t rant at 4:00 AM
It may very well come down to that I am quite unsympathetic towards people who make decisions that I regard as poor, no matter how the light shines. Also, to clarify, let me spin this scenario in the light that is cast inside my skull: I wish to engage in an act that is, by nature, the source of the procreation of our race and the resultant for which is inevitably children, but I want to do it for the carnal pleasure and momentary passion of it all. Oh, oh, wait, a single, moist tear is dripping down my cheek for your plight, my child — except, of course, not.
There’s something innately hedonistic about this behaviour, and I have never particularly cared for hedonism; which is, invariably, another source of my disdain for this practice. Hey, maybe it feels good, but it causes problems without exception. I don’t necessarily have to elaborate on these issues, and some of them are just plain and simple, but I can not help expounding on something just for the sake of elaboration and supporting ideas.
Probably the most subtle and overlooked result of having sex is the fact that it throws your fucking hormonal system into swirling chaos. Moreso for females than males, it is still the case that when you start having sex, you’re going to start processing shit in your head differently, and becoming emotionally altered. Sex is, in a way, a mood-altering drug, which is another reason I probably don’t condone the free distribution of it, on the corner . . . (I don’t condone prostitution, but I do see the obvious benefit in its legalisation, though — another time for that rant.)
In fact, that very well may be exactly why it sickens me to see teenagers and young people throwing it around like candy; it is, simply put, a mood-altering drug: sex is Ritalin. It dulls your senses, it glazes over reality, and it makes life a happy, colourful world. Perhaps, when all is said and done, I am an extreme realist, but denial of reality and emotion for the sake of pleasure just rubs me wrong. “I don’t like school, life is shit, my parents don’t understand me, I’m unsure of my purpose in this world — but I sure can fuck! Whoo!” Fucking fuck that idea, in its ass. If you want to use sex as an excuse to find happiness for a flitting minute or two, in bed, have fun at it, sure, but understand that I think you’re a weak-willed moron.
Sex for pleasure is denial of the nature of the act. It is an exploitation of a function built into our biology for the sake of hedonism. The act of sex is something that I’ve always chose to hold sacred, and, as with all things held sacred, corruptions of such a thing piss me off . . . They piss me off enough to come off sounding like a conservative Bible-thumper, honestly. I read back on the paragraphs that I’ve already typed out, and I know how Puritan and holier-than-thou they come off, and I really don’t care. I’ve seen too many people fuck-up their already fucked-up lives by adding sex to the equation, and I hear too many sob stories that ring empty to my ears because they wouldn’t exist, otherwise, if it weren’t for sex being involved.
“My parents would utterly kill me and disown me if they knew I was having sex, and now I’m pregnant! Wah!” Oh, bull-fucking-wah, bitches, I don’t want to hear it — you made the choice, and embrace the consequence. You put something in your vagina, something comes out, eventually — it’s like one of those grapple-machines, where you put in a quarter and have a slim, nigh-impossible chance of walking away with a cute, plush animal. And what’s abortion other than some poor kid’s excuse to avoid the consequences and keep shit hidden from their reality? Nine times out of ten, it’s going to be the same story — he fucked her, they don’t want the baby, and she has to go get her uterus hoovered — and I don’t give a flying fuck, because there was an easy way to avoid that, if you just gave up fifteen minutes staining sheets.
Already I know what I get for expression of such a view — oh, what about the rape victims? What about the rape victims, who have such a tiny, minuscule chance of getting pregnant while being raped that the percentage of rape victims who do hardly merits the need for free clinics on every third corner. I’m not so heartless as to deny this marginal amount of the population fair treatment — regulate and prescribe early-abortion pills, if need be. Give doctors the license to dole out such treatment to people who have been unwillingly impregnated. Is this ever going to happen? No, because people are too hung up on their morals and philosophies to compromise. The conservatives are sanctimonious, and the liberals are fucking hippies about it.
What it comes down to, with abortion and me, is that I don’t think Suzy the Sixteen-Year-Old Slut deserves a trip to the womb-cleaners because she fucks around, but I do think there are people who seriously need them. Rape victims, yes, and those who will experience horrid medical trauma if birth is given; also, if lethal gene combinations are detected in the fetus and it is inevitable that it will die when reaching the light, then prescribed abortion would not be an unviable option. I’m sick of hearing about how it’s “my body, my choice,” too, because it’s certainly the body of the cripples with two, inoperable legs that would like to have the choice of affording corrective measures to get them fixed — do you see them carrying fucking signs? That’s right, abortions are an avenue of society just like all other medical procedures and surgeries, and that means that it’s the decision of society to condone them. Do I like the fact that this is true, that society dictates access to resources and means to certain ends? Fuck no, but I accept it. Get a better argument, if you want intelligent people to listen.
You fuck. You’re fertile. It sucks to be you. Do I cry crocodile tears in the name of every teenage girl who has “unfortunately” been found to be pregnant at fifteen? No. Do I care about couples who suddenly find themselves with a crisis on their hands when they spent years and years playing the numbers, gambling that everything would go right and nothing would get inseminated, and finally lost at the roulette wheel? No. Is every single instance of every single variation on every single similar scenario avoidable? Yes, which is exactly why I have no sympathy for them — don’t put yourself in traffic and bitch that you got hit by a car. It’s the reason why roads were built: to cater to cars moving at a high velocity. You were born with genitalia for a pretty damn obvious reason, too, and the side-effects are great . . . Er, wait, nowadays the “side-effect” would be a baby, I imagine, and the main point of sex is carnal indulgence. Feh, fuck you, people.
Some people will tell me that half the pursuit of fun in life is taking risks. Right, and, somehow, it’s fun that people keep themselves in detrimental relationships for elongated periods of time due to “good sex?” It’s not fun when it’s trading another facet of pleasure in life for a superfluous and temporary replacement. You create these strings of connection that never break, these memories and feelings that are drilled and cemented into your brain, and then are surprised to find out that the effects were lingering years later? Moreoever, sex fuels the most degrading aspects of our society, and it keeps afloat some of the most demeaning and retarded practices. We buy overpriced clothing to get sex; we pay money for bad mixed drinks for sex; we attend establishments full of horrendous music and smoky bars for sex; we pander to other people’s emotions and squelch our own, all the while growing suppressed and psychologically-damaged, for sex; I hope it makes you happy, because it certainly makes you ugly.
By the way, in conclusion to the abortion argument, “it’s my body, it’s my choice,” in my mind, immediately translates to “it’s my body, I want to be able to misuse it and shirk the repercussions of such acts, all the while blaming society and everybody else for my own ignorant decisions.” I really only felt like putting that previous sentence in to heinously offend anyone who is, as of yet, not. Mission accomplished, I truly hope.
Not everyone treats sex as flippantly as I make it sound like everybody in the world does. And not everybody alive will experience the downside to sex — mostly because they don’t surface in all cases. And not everybody in the world will ever find themselves with sexually transmitted diseases, and wonder how it happened. Which is another thing: STDs continue to circulate and wipe out humanity only because people, apparently, refuse to act intelligently about sex. Oh, testing and discretion in the selection of my partner for the night? I’m too inebriated to worry about that, until after the fact; which, of course, is when I’ll start expecting people to recite my name in touching, heartfelt displays of sympathy for “victims” of a disease that I only contracted via my own actions. Aw, the porn industry is heavily swept with AIDS and herpes? Surprise! Jesus Christ, could the human race be a bit more of a horde of blithering, drooling fucktards about sex?
I sometimes — more oft than not — lose hope in the continuation of this species I belong to when I look around and see how people have corrupted sex. “It’s fun! Like a game! Let’s all do it, all the time!” We’ve been instilled with this natural drive to spread our kind like rabbits, and the best we can do is use it to sell beer? How about some creative applications of sex appeal in marketing and lifestyle choices, huh? It’d, at least, be amusing to see people parading about in favour of having sex with fruit, or candy, or donuts . . . Or something. Use a hot woman to sell tampons, I say. Why? Because the look of stricken terror on the machismo apes that slobber over supermodels would be priceless when they see Tyra Banks talking about her leaky labia. But, no, no, these things aren’t going to happen; instead, people will continue to use sex as a means of escapism and hedonism. Some people smoke pot, some people fuck on the fly — some people do both, and they never live long or healthily.
I really could rant on about this for hours, but I’m already encroaching upon that personal limit I’ve set for myself for any one given entry on this Blog. In conclusion: kittens are happy because they don’t fuck around with slutty teenagers. “Meow,” they say, as they paw at the ball of yarn dangling over their noses, and think about their intelligent life-choices to not engage in frivolous sex and to, instead, chase string. Meow, indeed, Mr. Kitten . . . Meow, indeed.
Adios.
I shouldn’t rant at 4:00 AM
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
1:01 AM
<< Home