I don't care anymore, and when one truly doesn't care anymore it is a beautiful time because it opens up the door for true and blue and undenied SUBLIMITY. These are the times we should all cherish; but they are so dark! No one gives a rat's ass about what I write in this journal except the Rat Himself, and that is great. It is time we stopped using the rat as a scapegoat upon which to displace all those things we do not understand. When we say "Who gives a rat's ass?" about something, we are denying responsibility for those whose asses are not quite as gorgeous as our own. I am the Rat Himself now, I plan to take all of these things you have placed upon my ass and turn them against you. I care very much about the fact that I am not afraid to show my cock to anyone anymore; even though you may not, again, give a rat's ass about his fact, it is something I personally find important and worthwhile.
I work in a porn store. I mop up cum- among other things- for a living, and my workplace is a dark, nasty (beautiful!) cathedral full of masturbators, unabashed masturbators who cum on the floor for me. One of them today came out of one of the movie viewing booths, zipping up his pants, and I saw his "masturbator face". He was sullen, with dark shadows under his eyes. His lips were dry and pouty and in his pupils were visions of crucified women hanging from the ceiling of his small, lonely little bathroom at home. Crucified, naked women hanging upside down from his bathroom ceiling. When he takes a shit their blood pitter patters from the gash sliced into their bellies; it falls upn his cock as he moans and shits. Moans and shits. Blood on the floor and women dying as he moans and shits and looks at the floor again, so redundant and so sad. I felt for him. I felt for his loneliness, his infinite, unending redundant loneliness. I have a true sympathy, nay, empathy for the lonely as I am now one of them.
One of the masturbators. I have become one of them! And who cares about this fact except the Rat Himself? I tell you, also today, one of the other masturbators came up to me while I was wringing out my mop. He whispered in my ear, "You have the masturbator's face now. You didn't have it at first when you came here four years ago. But I see it now." I didn't know what to say or how to take this. How often does someone come up to you and say you have a masturbator's face?!! HA!
Degeneracy. Crumbling minds. A little while later I was walking into a booth to wipe some cum off of one of the TV screens. A man was in there, in his forties, with a beard and a sad look in his eyes. He saw my masturbator face and smiled a lewd, warped grin. A thin glaze of weariness lit up his eyes. As I stared at his large cock he had in his hand, I felt a communion I hadn't felt in a while. I looked up to the ceiling to make certain I was out of the view of the security camera so my boss couldn't see me, feeling nervous because I was about to "cross a line". I had hitherto always been indifferent to the customers, but now I had a masturbator's face!!! Like saints who work in the leper colony and eventually their hands become green. Like a doctor who acquires the disease he is trying to cure. But I'm no surgeon; I'm no saint; I just mop up cum; I wipe cum off the walls. I scrub it with my hands. My life is CUM.
I pulled out my cock and showed it to the man. I held it in my hand and shook it at him. He shook his own cock back and nodded his head in acknowledgement of a secret. That's all that happened; it didn't go any further and some of you may say, "Who gives a rat's ass?" The Rat Himself does, and as I put my cock back in my pants I heard sad, melancholy music in my head. Degeneracy; minds crumbling. The man who no longer cares if anyone sees his cock GIVES A RAT'S ASS about this fact because, ironically, he doesn't care anymore .
The Paradox of the Rat Himself.
Sublimity. Aaaaaaaah . . . true beauty. Only the lonely know it. The chronic loneliness of those too fucked up to any longer have friends, or those whose friends have learned to leave them alone to masturbate morbidly because they know that assess and titties and cocks and cum splatters on the wall mean something entirely different than they used to. Sex. Procreation and the fun of millions is now absorbed into my elaborate pink and purple scrotum and when I scratch my balls you will feel my voodoo. I speak of the truly lonely and not those who feel the angst-ridden pang of being "alone in a crowd," or the "stillness," or the "emptiness," or who get the blues when their friends are away and they are forced to read a book. HA! Only the TRULY lonely learn to masturbate morbidly, my friends, and this is only the beginning of a riddle we will unravel over time. Before it is all over with, I will have you masturbating morbidly also.
