The Worm Has Turned

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Lord Mango

*-TOO MUCH INFORMATION

This entry will be considered by some to be TOO MUCH INFORMATION. If you don’t care to hear about my sexual self and thoughts don’t read it. I’m serious. I know it’s human nature to immediately want to do what you’ve been told not to do, if you know this will embarrass you to then see me later, at some point in the future then just don’t.

I’m writing it because it has to be read. I need to communicate this somehow. But you don’t have to be that person if you don’t wanna. Perhaps I shall put it in a book sometime, in some modified form, in fiction or in memoirs. I should so write some memoirs. I rock and everyone should acknowledge it. If I don’t get it down now though, I’ll forget. The words. And then I’ll be SORRY.

I may remove it later in the grip of guilt and regret but for now here it is.

Okay, so you’re warned. Don’t say to yourself later I didn’t.

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I am so high.

My medication does this, my Wellbutrin and Lamictal. Taken together with my first cup of coffee, whoo hoo, the smoothest ride. And no crash either, it just wears off after a few hours.

I can’t go out to work like this, so I don’t take in the morning if I have to work in the morning. I don’t take it all if I’m working all day. I can’t focus and function properly at my menial tasks. But there’s always another day you know. I almost never work all day every day.

Probably it’s not good for me.

Don’t care. Honestly I quite like it.

I say anything that comes into my head and I could write for hours like this, but I can’t see, not now. Because I have to stop and go to work and I just can’t stop. I can. But it hurts to stop.

I’m watching The Pianist. I’m sure it’s an excellent movie in itself, but I can see everything right now. Everything. Understand everything, hear everything. Feel it with my whole being.

I’m not truly watching and composing this. Because I can’t do both. Right now.

I wish there was a man here right now because we would have the best sex. The best. Every particle of my being would be there.

He wouldn’t be the same of course, but I’m sure he’d be pleased with the result.

Where is he?

I seem to have misplaced him. I wonder if he’s far or near.

Even just someone to talk at. Because I can’t talk to my children in this place and time and what is it? even though they’re thirteen and fifteen now. Because I say everything that passes through my head and some of it is not suitable to speak about with your own children.

Or anyone else’s.

Or even orphans, who would still be someone’s children.

There ought to be somebody here, even a very affable and interesting and lovely bi-sexual type women. Because at this point I could so do that.

The cat is running around and playing all over the place. The black cat, she doesn’t do that often.

Anyhow, I don’t know anybody like that and I think I would be, once I came down from this, I think I would be ashamed. I shouldn’t be. But I would be.

I am the type that has to separate my sexual self from most of reality. I cannot bear the idea that my children…it disturbs me just putting the ideas in the same thought and typing the words on the same page…that my children might consider me a sexual being.

That is somehow not right.

But it is me and I honestly don’t care to change it.

Separate my sexual being from my reality, which I don’t right now, in words, don’t do outloud in person to the people who won’t feel embarrassed by such talk and will take it for what it is. But the actions, the true actions. Must be kept to myself, private. Not for human consumption, known only to the person (be that person man or woman, which there's never been a woman to this point but I'm not ruling out such things in the future when I have my own private house...I'd only have such things in my own house...with my own love curtained bed, that's delicious, I've gotten off track) known only to the person that was there and not to be bartered at a later time.

Time to stop now.