Life

 

It’s still weird knowing what I’m doing in life. I’ve not really sat down and thought about things recently and it feels like Christmas was about three months ago. I suspect that’s because of the learning curve at work.

The other day I was in the shower just enjoying the hot water and mulling things over and needling myself over not  having sorted out driving lessons yet. Then it occurred to me that I only decided to have them about a month ago and that the plan was, and is, to take a week off and do the whole driving course in that week once things have settled down. So in a month or two I’ll be in a place to actually take that week off and do the course.

Then the other thing that’s playing on my mind is something that I think is an inherent part of my nature that I’ve obviously been suppressing for however long. Jordan Peterson talks about when you’re at the bottom of the social hierarchy and just clinging on you make yourself innocuous and harmless so that other people leave you alone and you become too agreeable.

I’m in this weird place where I can’t quite communicate what’s going on with the precision and clarity that I would like. The sort of quick and dirty version is that there’s something  up with my sexuality. I’m getting more and more dominant and I think that’s because I’m getting more and more confident in life generally and a whole load of stuff which I suppressed when I was just hanging on at that stage of my life dominated by depression and self-loathing.

Now, in fairness, there’s always been something. S and I can have some pretty rough sex but I feel like over the past three years this dominance is  really accelerating. This all started with India’s second boxing match. We were out in the crowd before her fight, the room was hot and the air was sweat laden. She’s maybe 5’1, 5’2 at most, she’s tiny and athletically built, she’s much, much smaller than me. We were watching her friend’s fight and India was getting worked up, she was yelling and shouting, the aggression was obviously flowing in her.

I found myself standing behind her looking over her body, noting how the light sheen of sweat made it glisten, taking in her passionate mood, and I could feel myself starting to pant. There was this enormous feeling of power and strength, an edge of aggression as I’m now fully checking out her body and she’s only wearing a pair of shorts and a sleeveless top. I could smell her scent, feel her body heat and all I could think about was ripping her clothes off, holding her down and fucking her. Not in an angry, hurtful way, but definitely in a way which showed her who’s boss. I didn’t want her to be afraid, I didn’t want to hurt her, in fact there was a powerfully protective if possessive element to it, but I wanted her to feel dominated. I’m quite metacognitive, I’m used to watching my thoughts as if I’m a distant observer, I was aware that I’m hard, I’m panting, I’m keyed up, that all I’m thinking about is the physical feeling of thrusting inside her and it was……I won’t say that the feeling was overwhelming because I didn’t actually rip her clothes off, hold her down and fuck her, but it was one of the most intense feelings of my life. I don’t think that I’ve even felt that way about Dakota, more of which later.

So, fast forward eighteen-months-ish, and admittedly I’d been doing the no fap thing for about a month, but I’m in the coffee shop flirting with, I think I called her EY. We’d been flirting for months, she used to hang out in the same pub as me so we’d seen each other a little outside of work hours and it was getting to the point where it seemed that the natural thing to do was to ask her out for a drink. There I am waiting for my cappuccino and I’m watching her make it and again one’s metacognition came into play and, this in my blog somewhere, but this imperious, confident, voice popped in my head and said something like, “She’s just a piece of meat to fuck your cum into”.

Now, the curious thing about this is that I was aware that there was, like, three layers of cognition going on at the same time. There’s the layer that likes EY as a person and realises all her good qualities and is busily not regarding her a sex object, engaging her in conversation and waiting for my coffee like a normal human being, there’s the metacognitive me and there’s this voice. I mean, it’s my voice, it’s the voice…..

Ah, epiphany; it’s the same voice that tells me that I’m shit and useless when I’m depressed. That’s……..wow, which is pretty much the reaction that the metacognitive layer and the me (?) layer had. It was a real moment of “Where did that come from?” because it was new and it had never happened before and it was so direct and confident.

Skip a few months down the line and I’m laying in bed thinking about BM and I started fantasising about her and what came out also got recorded in this blog and it was basically a fantasy of her telling me to fuck her while fighting me off every time I tried to do so resulting in me slapping her, pinning her and fucking her.

I can’t say that any of this makes me all that comfortable. Partly it’s wondering where the hell its come from and why all of a sudden it’s manifesting itself now and partly that it’s not something that I would necessarily choose to have as part of myself; it feels dangerous, it’s like waking up and finding yourself sitting on top of a mustang. Often as a man you come across men who flat out perve on women; a woman walks past and they have no compunction about making some absolutely objectifying remark, “I bet she loves it up the arse” “I’d give that one” which normally I find repugnant, so for my brain to suddenly come out with, “She’s just a piece of meat to fuck your cum into” is disconcerting to say the least.

The only comfort I get in this is the fact that so many women I’ve talked to want men that want to dominate them and that this new dominant streak seems to apply only to women I actually know; I’m not looking at random women in the street this way. Except Dakota, although, thinking about it, I think that last time I saw her I was having some pretty dominant thoughts, so, maybe even including her.

So much for my inability to find my Jungian shadow…….. I pretty much plan to explore it and see if I can’t usefully integrate it into myself.

Curious.

 

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Le Update MK XXVI

So things at the new place are going well-ish. There isn’t so much a learning curve as a learning cliff, but I’m coping, actually I’m rather liking it. I think that I have to be in the deep end of things, fully immersed, to really feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. The only slight problem is that it must be triggering some anxiety in me in that I can’t sleep the night before so I end up exhausted during the day and that often leads to real anxiety during the day also.  I’ve got myself some valerian which hopefully will help.

In other news Tuesday Night Drinking took a turn for the amusing when two girls, student nurse dropouts who have formed a band, decided to rock up to the pub. Much chatting ensued. I was explaining what I do in life and BM, who was passing by, yelled out, “HE’S NOT POOR!” for some reason. I found this amusing; I think she was trying to help me out. Long story short we ended up in the one place that might possibly let them put on an impromptu gig and got royally shit faced.

I keep dreaming about Dakota. Dreams where we go away together. Dreams where we’re cuddling. Dreams where she’s climbing on top of me.  I was quite annoyed. I had this dream where we were in a bar and I was slouching on this huge leather couch, a great big brown thing that I was slowly sinking into rather comfortably. She was sitting next to me and by sitting I mean she was turned over fully on  her side towards me, resting her head on her hand. A friend was on the other side of the table and we were all chatting away. Suddenly she straddles me, kisses me, bites my lip, kisses me again, just like S does actually. I looked at her for a second, surprised by the whole thing and then I was about to do the thing that comes naturally to me: bury my head in her cleavage. Just as I was in the process of burying I woke up. FUCKING. NOT. HAPPY.

Book buying has continued apace: I’ve bought Niall Ferguson’s new work The Tower and the Square which is all about the impact of informal social networks on history. Leviathan which should need no explanation and a couple of other books. The Tower and the Square is interesting. So far I’ve only read the first third which is a crash course on network theory which is interesting. I’m a huge fan of Ferguson’s work, I find him hugely insightful and he tends to take interesting perspectives on questions that most people feel have been answered so I’m really looking forward to getting into the meat of the book.

 

If you haven’t seen this car crash….

 

I’ve been following Peterson since September 2016 when he first came to prominence and I’m one of those people who can say that he’s changed my life. I preordered his new book 12 Rules for Life and got his previous one Maps of Meaning for christmas. If you ever take a piece of advice from a random blogger watch this guy’s stuff on YouTube, especially if you’re male and under forty.

So this is the infamous Channel Four interview with Cathy Newman. For background, Ch4 is a very neomarxist leaning channel and it’s news program is reflective of this. They’re hardcore feminists, anticapitalists etc etc and Peterson wrecked them in under thirty minutes.

Enjoy.

Blah

So the day after Christmas, which we call boxing day, mum fell over and fractured her wrist which means that I do all the cooking. Dad has this habit of smothering all his food in salt, as in, he spends four or five seconds sprinkling salt on all his food, before he’s even tasted it; it’s something that has to be seen to believed. I’ve noticed something in the past couple of weeks since I started cooking: Dad doesn’t even touch the salt anymore.

I suspect that this is because I bother to actually season the food, unlike mum.

 

In other news fuck I’m manic. Hypomanic. Whatever. I can’t say that it’s hugely fun since it’s fucking up my sleep which puts me in a position where I’m two steps away from a panic attack. On the other hand I am getting a lot done and finally keeping my room tidy. I find that if I can get some sleep I can focus the energy into a laser like point and get so much done. Without that sleep I go to shit.

I had an interview last Tuesday and aced it so I’m off to a new place, which I’m not going to talk about except to say that Dakota works for the same organisation where she is. I haven’t told her yet, I’m waiting until I get my lanyard and ID and then I’m just going to send her a selfie.

So, I’m feeling pretty positive for the future again and I have bags of energy. I must get driving lessons sorted out; there’s a place which does the whole course in a week. The parentals are somewhat sceptical about this but I’m like, it’s the same number of hours, just all at once and the total cost is identical, so why not just get it done in a week? Plus, me being me, I like the idea of getting it done in one go, I like the focus. I like being on a mission.

My long term goals haven’t changed, I’m just forced to take a more indirect route than I would have liked but I’m confident that I’ll be where I wanted to be at the end of last year by the end of this year.

 

 

How gay.

So C and I went drinking last night. BM was there with some of the staff having a drinking session by the quiz machine. C and me joined them, numerous jagerbombs were knocked back and then BM announced that she thought that I was gay. This was quickly put right, next thing I know, BMs head is on my shoulder as she tells me how much she loves her BF, MT, who is standing opposite us. Then we hugged each other a few times and she was pretty much squeezing the shit out of me.

Needless to say I was beyond not happy. I’m still not happy. I’m fed up. First there’s the fact that I’ve been flirting with BM for fuck knows how long, I’ve asked her out, and the whole time she’s been thinking that I’m gay. On one level it’s quite funny because I’ve been perving over her for however long and probably getting away with it in a way that I wouldn’t if she thought I was straight.

The other thing is that this periodically happens and it’s irritating. Last time it happened I talked to S about it and she says it’s a British women thing: Any guy who isn’t a knuckle dragger immediately registers as gay to British women. I remember being in a bar and it was a really warm summer night and we were getting ready to leave so I had my jacket slung over my shoulder. This group of girls motioned me over and they, giggling, said, “We think that you’re gay” “Why do you think that?” “Because you’ve got your jacket slung over your shoulder”. That’s what I’m dealing with.

This goes hand in hand with S’s and CM’s and every other foreign female friend’s observation that British women don’t know how to dress and always look like their beauty regime consists of being dragged through a hedge backwards. So whatever.

 

Jingle bells etc

So I have Jordan Peterson’s book Maps of Meaning, his new book on pre-order, money, whisky, and a bottle of Bleu de Chanel, which is good because I’ve almost finished the last one.

I’m actually enjoying this Christmas. I think that this has a lot to do with Jordan Peterson ruining my atheism to the point where I think of myself as a cultural Christian and believe that there is a God, it just isn’t a supernatural magic man in the sky. It’s funny because Jboy and I have this discussion around Christmas time about how Christmas doesn’t have the same magic as when we were children and now thinking about it, of course it doesn’t.

When we were children Christmas was made magical for us. We still had morning assemblies in school where we prayed, sang hymns and Christmas carols and the whole period was infused with that warming Church of England Christianity. We even got dragged off to church for a Christmas service. Now everything is much more secular so, of course it, has no magic about it. In fact it reduces the whole period to an empty ritual and the emptiness is obvious and hollowing of the human psyche.

So I’m sitting here listening to Carols from King’s and I’m reminded of my childhood and I feel some of that magic, I’ve been feeling it since Christmas really got going and it’s great.

 

 

 

Whatever.

I’m so utterly fed up right now. Dad’s endless negativity is grinding on me and I’m doing these job applications and I wonder why I’m bothering. I’m at a point where I feel no hope for the future. I know this feeling will pass; I’ve been on this rollercoaster enough to know how it goes, but that’s where I am at the moment. I don’t feel that the slog is getting me anywhere and this whole year has been a waste. I’m in this place where I realise I have to keep motivated even though I feel that there’s no point.

I think this is why the older I get the more I just want someone to look after me: I get fed up of being strong all of the time. I get fed up of putting on the brave face and keeping calm and carrying on and “you’ll get there in the end”. I just want to escape the world and bury my face in S’s or BM’s or Dakota’s cleavage and not have to deal with any of this for a while.

I feel like I’m almost being masochistic to myself at the moment: I get a rejection email and immediately I set the wheel in motion for another rejection email. That’s kind of like emotional self harm, isn’t it? Deliberately doing something that’s probably going to make me feel like shit over and over and over again. It’s insane too, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

I think part of me enjoys the struggle though. If I don’t do it then I’m stuck here and if I get through it then I’ll feel like a badass. It’s like training for black belt; those moments of laying on the mat and just thinking, “No, no more. I can’t do anymore. Sod the grading, I just want this to end” and then somehow summoning up the will to pick myself up off the mat and carry on. I don’t know where I get this determination to carry on from. It definitely doesn’t come from some huge confidence about the future or myself or something. It’s a “what else am I going to do?” Or as Jordan Peterson would put it, “Have you got something better to do with your life?”. No, I’m trying to make my life better so……welcome to the slog.

Maybe I won’t get anywhere. Maybe this is as far as I get. Maybe it is all pointless but the kicker is that the only way I’ll find out is to crack on and see what happens exhausting, depressing, soul crushingly miserable as it is. Like this is how you become hardcore: You get shit done when other people would give up.

See, now I can feel the aggression kicking in. I get so fucking frustrated sometimes. Like, the fuck is this bullshit about really? It’s just bullshit piled on bullshit piled on yet more bullshit and I wish that there was one person responsible and that smacking the fuck out of them would solve it. I’d absolutely love to solve all this with violence. I’m so fed up of nothing ever working out. I’m fed up of picking myself up, doing something knowing full well that it’s pointless and then being Jack’s complete lack of surprise when it doesn’t work out and there basically being fuck all that I can do about it apart from repeat the process. There isn’t a single part of my life that I’m happy with and the only good thing I can say is that I’m not giving up.

Meh, whatever. Get there eventually.