I decided for the time being to stick around LPSG, though I won't be participating in too much.
One thing I will state since I'm on my way out the door and my membership here is nearly concluded:
It is extremely telling that I suffered (and still am suffering) a crisis yesterday, and the only ones who showed any concern for my well being were two right-leaning folks. The lefty majority on LPSG (and the world they've thrown into schism) are too busy policing the site looking for anything that offends them and waging their political jihad upon all. Deafening silence from those on here who (previously) counted themselves as my friend on here who are left-leaning.
What am I to infer from this?
Much lip service is given to platitudes and compassion on here, such as Scarletbegonia's thread in Safe Space, but, as I asserted, it is all but bankrupt in this world. Many speak of it, extremely few practice it. It might not be quite extinct yet from this world, but the radicals are working hard on stamping out the last embers of it.
Acta non verba. Deeds, not words.
Two total strangers, both centrist/right-leaning, extended their hand to me and PMed me to counsel and speak to me. They did this with no ulterior motive of converting me to some cause. Complete apathy and silence from the left-winged folks on here. Those are the ones who no doubt quietly hit the "Report" button on my postings, so that I either wouldn't spoil their sexy fun time, or draw attention from their causes. There are perhaps a few who did because I triggered them due to them losing a loved one to suicide. The last one is understandable, and to those I apologize for that; it was not my intention. LPSG is not the place for this sort of thing anyway. I am embarrassed for making a spectacle of myself on that thread, but when I see political infighting and extremism, it places me in fight-or-flight mode and reminds me of why I now hate this world.
I have never revealed my own place in the political spectrum because it would be derided and mocked. I am neither left nor right, but centrist, perhaps a hair to the left on the scale.
So it would seem that small seeds of kindness exist in some centrists and right leaning people, but left-wingers are cold, hateful, dispassionate, and unfeeling, without compassion, concerned only with enforcing their agenda upon everyone, at all costs. The party of love and tolerance, raging and full of hatred. They have much in common with a certain 1960s Spahn Ranch love and terror cult; both out of California (Berkeley, Hollywood), and both spreading chaos, fear, oppression and death.
They speak of coexisting, but want a certain subset of the population dead. They speak of tolerance, but are intolerant of anybody who isn't part of their movement. They speak of justice, but want vengeance. They want anybody who isn't in 100% lockstep with them dead. They plan to pave the way to a utopian paradise of love and equality with the bones of those who disagree with them. This is irony writ large.
Lefties will get their wish in time: some day not far off after leaving here, I will no longer be among the living. I choose death over what I see coming soon.
Deleting account in a week. And getting my last affairs in order.
So long....we'll not meet again.
In Mortem, Omnes Sunt Aequales
Spiritus petivere est in aere
Omnium contra omnes
Omnis odit et omnis
Mundum proelii, ex multis minoribus acies
Mundi dimissione, candidus labe
In fetor insultus in naribus, et tamen nemo animadvertit
Terram putredine sub eorum pedibus, sicut se pugnare
Cultu mortem interemptae, in congruat, et incipit
Ignominam mortus, discerpens
Suffocatio in suum vomitum
Cum nihil est, sed mendacium, omnia verba fetere
Cum condicionibus defecit, nos pugna et occidere
Nos mori cum manibus nostris circa invicem iugula
Sex pedibus sub terra, omnia sunt civitatum
Terrae amplecti excipiendum febricitare críminum
Omnes tacet nunc
A disperditur planeta spirat a suspirio subsidio
Non magis politica, in morte sumus aequales.
In Death, All Are Equal
The spirit of revolt is in the air
All against all
Everyone hates everyone
The world's a battlefield, composed of many smaller battlefields
World demise, radiant decay
The stench assails the nostrils, yet no one notices
The ground rotting beneath their feet as they fought one another
Civilization in its death throes, in fits and starts
Ignominious death, convulsing
Choking on its own vomit
When there is nothing left but lies, all words stink
With diplomacy failed, we fight and kill one another
We die with our hands around one another's throats
Six feet under the ground, all are united
The earth's embrace welcoming the febrile horde
All is silent now
A rent asunder planet breathes a sigh of relief
No more politics, in death we are equal.
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Jactatio, plateas currere rubro sanguinum,
Capitibus fractis, aedificia incendit,
Fac modo in novum ordinem atrocitate:
Infernam venit ad terram.
Nova aetate calumnis.
Generationes sapientiae abdicavit in commutationem pro insania
Exercitus tolerantia, impatiens
Occidere in nomine pax.
Perdere in nomine tolerantia.
Odio in nomen amoris.
Tyrannidem habitu aequalitatis: nova aetate emittat.
A populus seductus, decepit.
Cerebrum lavit, ordinatur ad perdendum
Auribus surdo, ut causa.
Bonum sunt territi in silentio,
In dolor interitum.
Omnia causa perpetuum silentium.
Ita, nequam et malum plures locutus est.
A mortuus est terminus a quo non est redire.
Amor est obsolesciam.
Benignitas est obsolesciam.
Humanitatis est obsolesciam.
The Last Generation
Unrest, the streets run red with blood.
Skulls smashed, dwellings burned.
Make way for the new order:
Hell has come to Earth.
A new age of calumnies.
Generations of wisdom discarded for insanity
Armies of tolerance, intolerant.
Kill you in the name of peace.
Destroy in the name of tolerance.
Hatred in the name of love.
Tyranny in the guise of equality:
A new age of scapegoats.
A populace seduced, deceived.
Brainwashed, directed to destroy
All ears deaf to reason
The good are cowed into silence,
On pain of destruction.
All reason is forever silenced.
Thus, the wicked and evil majority has spoken.
A dead end from which there is no escape.
Love is obsolete.
Kindness is obsolete.
Humanity is obsolete.
Sine fide. Sine spe.
In me spero. In me confidunt.
Cum omnes ambitio est luxit super.
Cum lux evanuit.
Fortitudo ad continuum oportet inveniri intus.
Fides est enim stultus et mortuos.
Credere in nihilum.
Fides est interfectorem rationis.
In cruentum genua nos repere,
Nulla manu erit extensum,
Nos sumis solus.
Nos clamavi in abyssum, abyssi exclamat retro per nos.
Credo in nihil.
Oderunt me, quia ego sum haereticus.
O, quam infidelitas offendit eos ita!
Punire non fidelis, non sit eum vivere diu.
Ardere me, per ego sum haereticus.
Tu licet ardere me, ego luceat.
Without faith. Without hope.
In me I trust. In me I confide.
When all ambitions are mourned,
When all the light is gone.
The strength to continue must come from within.
Trust is for the foolish and the dead.
Believe in nothing.
Faith is the killer of reason.
On bloodied knees we crawl,
No hand shall extend to help,
We are alone.
We cry out into the abyss, the abyss answers back through us.
I believe in nothing.
Hate me, for I am the heretic.
Oh, how our disbelief offends them so!
Castigate the non believer, don't you let him live long.
Burn me, for I am the heretic.
You may burn me, but I will shine.
Recently, to try to keep my mind off the future, I've engaged in some small projects.
When you are as bereft of hope or faith as I am, the best thing to do is to focus on short term, bite-sized goals to occupy the time.
After the events of the election, the radicalization of the world, the realization that everyone hates everyone now, and the arrival of COVID-19, I slipped into a deep abyss of despair and quit working out altogether, barely ate anything, and quit planning for the future completely. I lost weight, going from 210 pounds, to 180, in a matter of months, which is a little bit underweight for my frame and 6'5" stature.
The trick is not to succumb to the mind-numbing apathy of depression that periodically sets in. When this profound elegy sets in, it comes in spells. Food loses flavor, turning to ashes in your mouth. The will to do anything falters; lassitude sets in. Lots of sleeping ensues, with 9, 10, even 13 hour sleep cycles becoming common. The desire to sleep and never wake up. Activities which were formerly enjoyable fail to stir any kind of emotion. Everything seems pointless. Even physical eyesight seems affected, with color perception becoming less acute and subtle grays permeate everything, like a picture in Photoshop with the saturation turned down. It is an uphill fight to keep from sinking back into the mire of hopelessness.
One thing I've learned in this new, broken world is that one has to keep their depression to themselves. I shared details of my depression on Safe Space and alienated some, even drawing scorn and opprobrium from a couple of men. One of the guys who commented on there likely wishes I would do myself in. Some that I was friendly with when I was previously on LPSG won't even talk to me now. We don't live in a world of compassion and concern for others now; there is hate simmering in the air and it is every human for themselves. It will take time to adjust. Mad Max adjusted to a post-apocalyptic Australia; maybe I can harden up and do the same, in time. This new world of COVID-19 and cruelty is going to take a hard son of a bitch to live in.
I plan to cultivate a small herb garden where I can nurture small plants and perhaps have my own supply of minor spices for our pantry. This goes hand in hand with my other new hobby, which is cooking. I have basil, lemongrass and two kinds of mint, and plan to add thyme and rosemary. I am waiting on the handyman hired by our landlord to return and replace our rotting wooden deck with paving stones and assemble our new shed. I only need to buy an additional planting trough and I can get started.
The other hobby, cooking, is something I have been learning the past several months, and getting better at in leaps and bounds. Even learning exotic and international dishes. A long time ago, I was such an inept cook I could not microwave a Hot Pocket without fucking it up. Plus, being a bachelor until almost age thirty gave me little reason to learn since I was only cooking for me. My wife is an accomplished cook and baker and I've learned much from her. She also taught me how to love. What a shame the rest of the world forgot how.
She is also wanting to get a puppy, to help keep her company when I'm at work. Some additional canine companionship may do us both good in the long run in this new, broken world.
There is also pixel art which, while a niche hobby, allows me to indulge my artistic side. I abandoned painting and drawing long ago; this is its nearest analogue.
I have begun attempting to get back in better shape, lifting weights again and eating more, even though my appetite isn't that strong. Going to the beach (far away from others, per social distancing protocol) to get rid of my pallid, ashen, deathlike pallor; and maybe helping elevate my mood with some testosterone-generating sunlight.
I figure I probably alienated some with my previous lugubrious and intense entries, unfortunately. I think there's a few on here that won't even talk to me again. To be honest, I didn't think anybody even looked at blogs on here. This is a pretty visually driven site. I'd say about 50% are on here to look at celebrity peen, 25% to socialize, and 25% to set up a political filibuster. I just sort of write out my thoughts, sometimes as a stream-of-consciousness style writing. Sometimes I get started and it flows uncontrollably, like diarrhea after a spicy vindaloo. Except without the ring sting. So, I always figured this was for me to look back and reflect on.
A few may poke their head into my cobweb-ridden dusty oubliette, just for shits and giggles; but judging from the amount of visitors who pop in and leave (the avatar icons at the bottom), I'm guessing most aren't going to find my profile and pics to their taste. I'm sort of the equivalent of that ice-encrusted carton of rum raisin ice cream at the back of the supermarket cooler that's freezer burnt and forgotten in favor of all the cartons of mint chocolate chip and cookies and cream that are the hotness. I am to very, very few peoples' tastes. Bizarre and alien to most palates. A hook-nosed, self-loathing, gawky, Howard Stern-looking blonde guy in his mid-forties with a penchant for nerdy hobbies and moodiness is not going to be the life of the party.
Though I stand by my conviction that I will not be in this world in another ten years or so, I still try to amuse myself with the small things to get through until then. I'm the itinerant death row prisoner who weaves baskets, writes, learns cooking, and obscure forms of art in his cell while awaiting his trip down the Green Mile. I may entertain the occasional visitor, but most aren't interested in the feckless musings of a dilettante eccentric.
There is comfort, liberation and peace in knowing I won't be alive anymore in the next ten to fifteen years.
It's akin to being imprisoned in a penitentiary and knowing your parole is approaching.
I post this for myself, as I know that on a picture-centered site such as LPSG no one really reads these things, and fewer care. This is perhaps a safer place than Safe Space, as it is pretty free of judgments.
I have realized that there is now only one single thing left keeping me living in this world: my wife. She is the only woman who ever loved me and the only one who ever will. Had I never been introduced to her, I would have been utterly alone my entire life; I was fortunate to have her settle for someone like me. And make no mistake, she settled; there is so much better out there for a woman than me.
That said, her health is somewhat shaky. She is turning fifty soon and she has a lot of mystery ailments that doctors either cannot pinpoint, or do not care to investigate. Her trust of doctors is spent; none of them care in the slightest about helping people, their only concern is using patients as guinea pigs for pharmaceuticals and making a profit. And I trust doctors about as far as I can shot-put a planet. Overpaid meat mechanics, the lot of them. So she is on her own, health wise.
I want her to live as long as possible of course. But I realize that with her health waning, and no medical help available (unaffordable, and none want to fix the problems), she may not live much longer.
Once she is gone, I plan on immediately ending my own life. I have a detailed, foolproof suicide plan set aside for this. No one will miss or mourn me; I know nobody and have no children. My death will affect absolutely no one. For this, I am glad as I would never bring a child into this awful, murderous shithole of a world. Especially knowing what is in store for them in the next twenty, thirty, forty years. I never envisaged children in my life since 1) I've never been a desirable mate for women and 2) I never believed in bringing them into the world without being able to provide financially for them.
Politics has transformed the world into a dystopian hellscape I no longer want to exist in; death is preferable to dwelling in this world. The past twenty years (in particular the past two) have shown me exactly where we're headed. There is no longer anything of worth or beauty in the world; compassion is dead, empathy is gone, the ability for people to think critically, reason and question things no longer exists. There is no unity of any kind left; unless you count groups of people ganging up on others unity, which I do not. The flickering candle of hope in this world is irrevocably extinguished, like a campfire being pissed out by a group of drunks.
I will enjoy what small things I can in the years she is still with me, and cherish her as best I can and then after she is gone, I will soon join her in peaceful, eternal slumber. I look forward to escaping this wretched, ugly place.
It gives me a small measure of comfort to know I won't be in this world much longer.
"If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face--forever." --George Orwell
I left that godawful thrift shop job for a better paying one, one where I wasn't dealing with a capricious public and sifting through detritus for minimum wage. The breaking point (besides the poverty wages) was when some charming fellow managed to get shit on the ceiling and I was asked to clean it up. How the hell does one do that?!? Was the mystery defecator in Cirque du Soleil or something? A friend of mine got married and his wife introduced me to her childhood friend, who was fleeing a stalker ex whom she had just divorced in a bitter, acrimonious split. Initially, the premise was that they believed I needed a dance partner at their celebration, one who was tall enough for me. She fit the bill, at 5'10". We were introduced through phone calls and emails at first; I was prepared for bitter disappointment as soon as she met me though, even with the bolts removed from my neck. I had long ago abandoned the idea of any woman ever expressing an interest in me. I had never thought of cruising the gay clubs for two reasons: 1) I didn't think I'd measure up for discerning guys and 2) I was petrified of my parents learning of my bisexuality. Throughout grade school I was routinely called ugly, ostracized, called Tall Toad by girls, Lurch by the boys, and was in constant fights. One boy, Ted, set me up on a blind date (one of the early instances where my extreme distrust of others was vindicated, but sadly, not heeded, thanks to teenage hormones) with his sister. Upon meeting her, found she was nine years old. I was not amused. I politely declined and upon returning to school, learned that he and his girlfriend told the other students and they all thought it was hilarious. I cornered Ted before he got on the school bus.
"I'm real glad you thought that was funny, Ted, because now I'm gonna pound you like a fuckin' piñata, asshole." I said to him.
A crowd of kids gathered, whooping and catcalling and I proceeded to stomp him like the world's biggest bag of flaming dogshit left on someone's doorstep. He lost three teeth and I broke his collarbone. Got suspended for a week and my parents were livid; having to pay his doctor's bills and they put me on restriction for a month. He spent the greater part of the school year with a brace on. The pranks stopped, but I was still a social leper. But at least ol' Ted probably had to eat through a straw for awhile. I'm not proud of this, of course; my actions are embarrassing and downright brutish.
My reputation was that of a weird, bizarre, violent loner. So I learned early on that I was uglier than a mud fence and lacked even an atom's weight of attractiveness or charisma.
Some years later, I began to philosophize about things, and began a long process of introspection and evaluation. Reading Nietzsche and Baudelaire and other writers and philosophers, I began to look at things through the lens of nature. As I understood it, the world was an abattoir where the strong and beautiful ate the weak; and I accepted that I was genetic drift. Nature had rolled the dice for me and I came up snake eyes. I would not be passing on my flawed genes, because in this world, only those of acceptable looks and enough glibness and charisma got to do that, while the unlucky others who didn't fit in or measure up did not get to continue their bloodlines. Nature. Brutal, harsh, strident, and pitiless. The male cardinal who lacks bright enough coloring to attract the female cardinal does not get to mate and sire offspring; the peacock who's plumage is not ostentatious and vivid enough to catch the female peacock's eye likewise does not get to pass on his genes. And so it is with humans, who, despite their pretensions of divinity and greatness, really are just part of the animal kingdom, like all other creatures on this planet. Confidence, it seems, is for the beautiful and the charismatic.
Though I suppose I was a prime candidate for becoming an incel, I never went that route. Unlike incels, I never believed others owed me their romantic attentions; there was no sense of entitlement there. I was angry at nature for giving me the short end of the stick.
Going back to the future Mrs. Lurch; she had moved down to Florida to escape her batshit insane ex-husband and his troglodyte brothers, who believed they owned a woman once she married them. They were the type of knuckle draggers who liked their women like their eggs; beaten. The only things missing on those guys were the bruised knuckles from dragging the ground and a club for thwacking prospective mates on the head and dragging them back to their cave. She moved in with my friend and his fiancée and her and I began hanging out together.
I was astonished that she was not repulsed by me and actually seemed to enjoy time with me. I kept wondering when luck would finally run true to form and she'd drop me like a lead balloon. It somehow never did and her and I moved in together soon after.
One night a car followed us to our apartment and when we went inside, she was in a panic, petrified. She informed me the car was the loser trifecta of her ex-husband and his two mouth-breather brothers, come to "cajole" her back home. I was prepared to do a little cajoling of my own. I charged outside and ran towards the curb where their car was idling and they promptly took off, wheels squealing, like the gutless yellow turds they were. They never returned. Wouldn't it have been a shame had they returned to Kentucky sans ex-wife and with cracked skulls and broken bones. Guess they cut their losses.
We got married not long after, with a twist: she proposed to me! I was more surprised than a pedo was upon seeing Chris Hansen walk in, microphone in hand. Of course it never occurred to me for a nanosecond I'd ever have to propose to someone; I'd long since resigned myself to being alone forever. I think she got tired of waiting and beat me to the punch. To this day I'll never figure out how someone became interested in me; it must have been a cosmological mistake, a clerical fuck-up in the machinery of the universe that will never again repeat itself.
I've found some pretty fun people to chat with on here, and to be honest, I'm probably on here more for the conversations than the pics anyway. Oh, I'll perv the odd pic or two, but to be honest, you can find plenty of cocks, tits, pussies and asses anywhere on the net.
I was on here once before, but stepped away for a bit and spent some time on Fetlife. It was fun for awhile and I learned a lot. But, that endeavor kind of went tits up after a while because of all the radicals and extremists floating around there (hint: if you join, turn off your feed and stay off Fresh & Pervy: there's enough hatred floating around in there to power the planet for the next ten years!). I got the hell out of there faster than a flock of chickens fleeing when they see Colonel Sanders coming their way.
At any time, you'll probably find me mostly in the Et Cetera and Funny Stuff sections. Those seem like the most fun, enjoyable sections. You learn some surprising things there, and that's where the most oddballs like myself loiter. Occasionally finding the odd, interesting nugget of trivia in there, like a prize in a Cracker Jack box, only without the painful bits getting stuck in your molars. Sometimes I may poke into Women's Issues or skim assorted other sections, not usually commenting, but liking the odd comment or pic.
Sections I usually avoid like a burn victim avoids a vinegar daiquiri:
1) Politics. Hard nope for me. Wandering in there is like meandering around a powderkeg with a lit Roman Candle in your mouth. And an echo chamber to boot. Discourse in this country has gone the way of the leisure suit, the dinosaur, and acid-washed jeans; nothing but arguments, insults, and pure spite in there. I'd rather have Freddy Krueger for my proctologist than be in there.
2) Dad and son threads. Ick. Just accidentally clicking on those makes me feel like I need a shower.
3) Show Off. Well, the more obvious and simple reason is, there ain't too much in my profile to strut about. Oh, I've got a few fans here and there; but Chris Hemsworth isn't going to feel threatened by me anytime soon. And those rating threads give me the screaming abdabs; I doubt I'd get higher than a 3 or 4 in any given one. I'll let the roosters and peacocks have that section; us awkward ducklings will linger in the periphery, thank you.
4) Penis Enlargement. Never been a believer in it. Now, there are dozens in there who would vehemently and vociferously disagree with me, and that's okay. Some find solace in the concept, and I don't want to disabuse anybody of their belief they can turn their four inch johnson into an eight inch one. I think the increases are negligible at best and surgeries are potentially scarring and damaging. I'd rather have a functional four incher than an eight incher that's damaged, useless and soft. It's like playing pool with a rope. And the pumping isn't really my cup of tea either. It might look impressive, but aesthetically it looks to me like someone inflated a bratwurst to 80 psi with a bicycle pump. Impressive, but it'd be like shoving a Genoa salami inside someone.
5) Models & Celebrities/Web Personalities/OnlyFans. I won't lambast those that like them; to each their own. Anybody who has given more than a cursory perusal of my past postings will know my disdain for celebrities and superficial tabloid culture. Not my jam.
When it comes to pics, I add the odd pic here and there, on a whim. I couldn't keep up with ten albums like some on here have, but more power to them if that's what they enjoy. I do alright for a 45 year old, I guess, but you're not gonna see me on the cover of GQ any time soon. Chuck roast can't exactly compete side by side with filet mignon. The little dopamine hit of getting an occasional heart on a pic is kinda nice, but one shouldn't rely on that for self-esteem. Validation has to come from within, not externally. If anything, I probably treat this like my own personal alternative to Facebook and Twitter; just with my two cents added, unbidden, and with more asses and dicks. The literal kind.
It's story time with Uncle Lurch, so grab a beverage of your choice and join me by a warm cozy fire as I don a bathrobe and corncob pipe.
Way back in the nineties, I was a college student for a time. I was pretty aimless and angry, my only hobbies being metal music, video games, painting and drawing, and knock down, drag out fist fights in parking lots with other dudes. And cutting. Worked on a degree in Graphic Art (art being my one skill. Thanks, Nature. The one thing you give me and it's not charisma, or looks, but friggin' DRAWING. Real useful. Mother Nature can go sit on a thumbtack). When I realized two things: 1) College was making me hemorrhage money worse than a Las Vegas gambler, and 2) Artists get zero respect in this world, I dropped out. But I digress.
My college buddy, Pete, was a guy I hung out with at his dorm. We would drink beer, blast stuff like Buzzov*en, Skinny Puppy, Bile, Napalm Death, and Blood for Blood while playing Goldeneye and other games. I got so inebriated one evening that while a Froot Loops commercial came on the TV, I sat on the big TV set (TVs were gargantuan back then) and when the part of the commercial came where the Froot Loops were falling down I made faces and loud groaning noises like I was evacuating mass amounts of the rainbow-hued cereal from my keister, while he and I laughed uproariously. Real mature, and our neighbors must've adored us. Basically, your typical activities for a 22-year old delinquent wiseass fuck up. Pete and I would get drunk and eat at the nearby pizza buffet. One night we wore out our welcome when Pete super glued the flatware to the table. I remember filling out the survey card and in the comments section, I mentioned the pizza tasted like the bottom of a birdcage, and that the restrooms really needed one of those poncey tuxedo wearing guys with a towel that passes out dinner mints. In a pizza buffet that charged two dollars for all you can eat pizza, somehow I doubt my droll suggestions were taken to heart.
When I wasn't hanging out with him on weekends between classes, I was busy picking fights at clubs in the area. It really was a wonder I didn't get arrested. I brawled nearly nonstop throughout grade school, but fighting as an adult was a whole new ballgame; you could go to jail for assault. I had so much anger and hate overflowing in me I had to beat the living shit out of someone. A few times I got slashed with a knife, another time a guy wielded a pool cue. Looking back, I really was a thug.
Eventually I internalized it in the form of severe depression, which manifested in a suicide attempt in 1999. Not one to do things half-assed or leave it to chance, I lay in a warm bathtub full of water and made twelve deep slashes on each forearm, after imbibing a third of a bottle of Jack Daniels with a bottle of sleeping pills. I drifted off and remembered vomiting while I lay there in the tub. I blacked out and awoke in the hospital, furious that I was still here. I learned I had died for three minutes before coming back.
A year later, I got a job working at a thrift store. Jobs were extremely scarce and being Florida, this was what they called a "right to work" state. This cute term supposedly meant that you had a right to work if a job was unionized, meaning no closed shops. But really, it meant you had a right to show your ass out the door if you were unhappy at a job. Here, they can terminate you if they don't like your eyebrows. I was hired after the previous guy had concluded his stint by dropping his pants in front of the manager, displaying the words "I QUIT" across his buttocks. My job entailed cleaning the store and going through the donations making sure they were fit to sell. This was farcical when you realize that they accepted VHS tapes, but didn't bother to screen the contents. Somehow, I doubt movies with titles like Hold Every Drop Then Swap and Pussyman's Adventures In Jamaica Volume 7 would have made it past a more rigorous screening process. We also received used underwear, replete with disgusting skidmarks and piss stains, which was still put out for sale. Apparently there were a lot of people out there who didn't use bleach when they washed their underwear. Now, no matter how destitute or penurious I might get, I can somehow always scrape together a few dollars for a pack of new Hanes, rather than wear someone else's syphilis-and-cholera-tainted Y-fronts.
The rest of the time we were chasing off a psychotic homeless man who frequented the store. The man's stench was so foul it would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. He more than likely came in to escape the intense Florida heat, which was usually in the upper 90s or low 100s. Me being 6'5", and the only male working in the store, the other ladies had me approach the man and ask him to leave. He stopped showing up after awhile, I soon learned why; he was arrested for defecating in a mall fountain.
The crux of this tale was that we received a ball gag, and, being a naïve, gangly, unattractive 23-year old who spent his life fist fighting but very little time in the bedroom, naturally I had no idea what it was. I showed it to my manager Barb. She giggled and informed me it was a ball gag, used primarily in kinky sex.
"You mean this has been in someone's mouth?" I said.
"Yep." She told me. I dropped the damn thing and washed my hands. I asked her why a guy would want to be gagged in such a way. She then explained to me about Domination/submission, flogging, caning, and plugs. I was intrigued, not only at this side of sex I'd never heard of, but also that a woman would deign to explain it to a towering, gawky lump of girl repellent like myself. It seemed she was married and had an exciting slice of life I had hitherto unheard of.
Well, her boss, the store manager, a proper Christian lady, strongly disapproved of not only the gag, but Barb's intimate knowledge of such paraphernalia. Said store manager made it her duty to harass and drive off Barb from the store. She was ultimately successful, sadly, but I'm willing to bet that the store manager went home to an empty, cold bed with a twat drier than the Sahara while Barb doubtlessly found employment at a better place and enjoyed earth-shattering, bed-soaking sex with her husband.
I'm never sure about what's acceptable to write in a blog these days; you never know what might get you banned or on the receiving end of scorn or a cancel culture volley aimed your way, but here goes.
I'm an awkward 6'5" introvert who kind of specializes in looming ominously in the background when people are gathered. I'm told I look a bit like Owen Wilson or Zoolander, but if I did, I'd have been beating women off me with a stick, instead of the usual reaction: "Ewww....no!!" So make of that what you will. Maybe Owen Wilson if he were distorted by a funhouse mirror and then stretched on a rack. We'll go with that. Although Howard Stern would probably make a better comparison; we're both abnormally tall and women consider us a vaginal desiccant. Let this be a lesson, all you short guys lamenting your diminutive stature; height ain't everything if you're lacking everywhere else. There's a reason Frankenstein's bride had to be made in a lab.
I lift weights, like some video games, and books and literature. And pixel art. Drawing it as well as studying it. The beach, though I stay high up on the dunes to avoid others (social distancing). Mostly pedestrian interests.
My wife is a wonderful lady of 50 and I'm lucky to have stumbled upon her; she encountered me coming out of a bad marriage and her psycho ex was stalking her. He came looking for her with his two brothers and I chased them off. They threw their hands up and ran like the Kuwaiti Army. Had I not met her, I'd be alone today. She's out of my league, though I think most women are.
The nickname Lurch came about in high school. For those who are too young to remember Addams Family, he was the creepy, giant taciturn butler who said very little. Wasn't lucky enough to get my own mansion though.
I was on LPSG once before under a different name, left and decided to return. I did a stint on Fetlife for awhile but left it behind.
So, it's not exactly Fight Club, but it's a story of sorts. Gift shops and T-shirts are on the way out and on the right.