Friday Afternoon Confessional: There is Nothing on the Inside
I confess that my sex drive is not always synchronized with that of The Wife. On this magnificent site I have found a solution for one of a total of two possible directions in which we can be out of phase in this:
To the lurkers with a tendency for perversion: no, The Wife is not attracted to Ice T. It is just that I do not love Coco. Not that I think she is not lovable or likable or anything, I have no way of knowing that. Not that I cannot imagine that Ice T loves Coco, I am sure he does if he says so. I confess that I’m simply turned off by that picture.
I confess that the other of a total of two possible directions doesn’t happen a lot. I guess we’re kind of traditional that way.
I confess that I have only very little interest in what you, dear readers, have going on as far as being traditional in that way. I confess I have even less interest in how far you are not traditional this way. My interest is likewise limited, approaching the infinitesimally close to zero, in whether you are turned off or on by Coco, Ice T or any combination of the both at any age, stage of nudity or weight.
You might wonder why I bother you with all this shit of mine if I can’t be bothered with any of that shit coming from you. I suppose the short answer is: because I can. The long answer is: Noam Chomsky is wrong, there’s nothing deep hiding below the surface.
I hereby confess in passing that I have no soul. I would find this to be more of a problem for me personally if I wouldn’t be convinced that none of you have souls either. I confess that I believe that, dig as deep as you want, you’ll find that There is Nothing on the Inside. I confess that I am simplistic that way. If you do well, you mean well. If you mean well, you do well. Sure, there might be external circumstances that break this pattern but these circumstances are external, not internal. At the same time the “if p then q” pattern isn’t broken by some counter-examples because the pattern is not one of materiality but one of probability (if you want to be bored you can click the link on the first link on this page). In other words, It is All on the Outside. The only Reality is The Reality at The Surface.
[I confess it might well be the case that I’m at This Very Moment possessed by a, badly demented, version of The Spirit of William Blake. For this and all other gibberish I apologize.]
This is why I confess I am happy that Ice T loves Coco. It is a good thing to love somebody, certainly when that somebody returns that love. Weight, average feelings of good taste and a suspicion that the relationship is more about the material than the spiritual have nothing to do with it. They are just the signs of being judgmental and as such of not meaning well.
That said, I confess I’m still turned off by that picture. But that is only a sexual reaction and more specifically my sexual reaction. Other than that the whole thing is kind of endearing.
I do confess I have a very big interest in what you, our dearest readers, find endearing. I confess I cry at the end of a well made tearjerker. Hell, I even cry at the end of a badly made tearjerker.
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