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Indeed, the darkness of the mind has been disturbingly and delightfully explored by the likes of William H. Gass and Richard Kalich , et al. Nowadays, illiterate readers an unfortunately necessary oxymoron fail to distinguish between authors and fictional characters, not to mention ideas espoused by the latter rather than the former.
If you suffer from such an inability, then read the following story at your own risk. The general concern, I suppose, lies in the fear that I might, through the mere act of speaking to, or even looking at, a woman, unwittingly channel my inner Harvey Weinstein. I blame scented candles. The phthalates lowered my T and shrunk my perineum.
Every time I run into a beautiful woman, any woman, for that matter, my throat tightens, my hands sweat, visions of court proceedings flood my mind. I started, like anyone in need of existential consultation, by scouring 4Chan threads. Others suggested optimizing your financial prowess by investing in emergent cryptocurrencies.
Unfortunately, it keeps me up all night. I fall into a paranoid stupor, overcome by the vague sense that lions are clawing their way through the walls. In it, Deida proposes that by inverting the orgasm and channeling the energy up your spinal column, into your brain stem, the highest chakra, you can reawaken the authentic masculine within. I must not be doing it right because every time I try, I end up stuck in spiraling memories of my mother and all the degrading indignities she has caused me, all the years spent pining for her approval, incapable of holding her attention, like a leper thirsting for water as it leaks through the sieve of his fingerless hands, and then I cum, all over myself.
