Just Me, Myself, and Your F*cking Mother!

  • She was really something, your mother, a real beast.

    She, better than anyone I’ve ever known, cultivated the black art of individuality — believing that the development of the entire human race depends on the development of the individual. The reason she believed this is that she believed each human is an organism of a self-constructed soul.

    Don’t be bound by dogma, she often said, whether secular or non. Dogma is the problem.

    Once, some time ago, after heavily petting with her by the pool table, she told me that if you meet a woman at a bar who’s spent her life in educating herself, you’ll drink the rest of your whiskey and rise from the bar a far better and happier person, knowing that a high ideal has for a brief time touched you and sanctified your day.

    (“I am unable to quit,” your mother said, following her tenth orgasm, “as I am currently too legit.” God, I loved that woman.)

    Like the sesame-eyed sage of the Green River, she proved that the choice to pay attention or not is the only real choice we have — the very seat of human will — because it is the most fundamental choice there is.

    Only the individual thinks and acts, she said to me after we had had sex for the fifth time that day, and human life is human action.

    The following, she said, after giving me some of the best fellatio of my life, are the axioms:

    Contemplation is the highest human occupation because it’s where actions originate.

    We’re each defined by our actions.

    Our actions, in turn, are defined by our thoughts.

    Human life is human values, and your values are what you most enjoy doing.

    The question, then, is this:

    Will your values promote your life and enhance it over the long run?

    Or are they short-lived pleasures, enjoyable and diverting but ultimately damaging or destructive?

    And that, I guess, is the most fundamental question there is.

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The sawed-off shotgun of literary pulp.

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