One quarter of an hour to three in the morning and it's just me and an ice pack. Refrigerant filled plastic sac meant to provide relief to battered scrotum manages only to coalesce antecedent pain with cold searing for which my gonads call me asshole. Missives of discomfort travel to upright brains from hanging ones so I dispose of the offending cryotherapeutic aid. Several attempts at creative expression end in more self abuse than words written so I try my hand at the paradoxical art movement inspired by me, anti-ideaism. Developed by The Kid anti-ideaism consists fundamentally of repeating anti-ideaism as much as possible and not creating under the philosophy that any ideations have previously been ideated and if not it's because they weren't worth ideating to begin with. That is to say it's all been done so don't do shit. Four hundred thirty eight chants later, a lewd idea forms and I realize I've been lilting panty I needs 'em for half an hour. A little closer to three in the morning. Hermitic urges conflict with vagabond tendencies. Food and wanderlust no longer strong enough motivators for travel marital status and solitude leave no means of discovering how quotidian lust would fare. That isn't to say there's anything ordinary about my lust. I'm no Mrs. Grundy. Lengths of "time" and low quantity of fingers when tabulating trends of affection depresses but I can't help whose flesh chemically pleases my gray matter without the help of genital duping ethanol but that's a lot of work and really who has the time? Eight minutes to three in the morning. I’ve much nothing to do.
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