Prologue - On Losing Your Marbles
At first, I was a eunuch. I got married to a cocktail waitress I had banged and quickly signed over the title to my cock and balls. She kept them under lock and key and I was permitted access to them at her discretion but mainly on holidays and right before she got her period.*
Funny thing, when you're separated from your balls you develop something like Stockholm syndrome and you begin to believe that you're better off before it. It starts with trips to places like Bed Bath and Beyond and before long you're actually thinking about duvet covers and switching to low carb beer. You convince yourself you're a better man for it. You become certain that holding a woman's purse on the bench outside something called "Laura Ashley" is just as much fun for you as watching professional basketball. You avert your eyes when a woman with an incredible pair of tits approaches because even though it is written into your DNA and your psyche to admire a fine pair of milk wagons you have been reprogrammed to believe that the only part of a woman you may admire is her mind.
I spent years doing shit I simply didn't want to do. I spent days at the mall. I watched horrible movies where men and women talked and talked and talked and there was not a single explosion, car chase or pair of tits. I ate salads. I picked out paint samples and fabric samples and carpet swatches.*
I hit bottom when I found myself alone on a Saturday afternoon and, not knowing how to occupy myself...I watched Oprah. I watched a full hour of Oprah and when it was over I felt the darkness in the depths of my own despair. My life had hit a dead end. I had stopped being a man for so long I had forgotten how to be one. I looked in the mirror and saw my loafers and the elastic waistband in my pants. I looked at my home and I saw pastels everywhere. I had crashed into the embankment of life.
At first, I was a eunuch. I got married to a cocktail waitress I had banged and quickly signed over the title to my cock and balls. She kept them under lock and key and I was permitted access to them at her discretion but mainly on holidays and right before she got her period.*
Funny thing, when you're separated from your balls you develop something like Stockholm syndrome and you begin to believe that you're better off before it. It starts with trips to places like Bed Bath and Beyond and before long you're actually thinking about duvet covers and switching to low carb beer. You convince yourself you're a better man for it. You become certain that holding a woman's purse on the bench outside something called "Laura Ashley" is just as much fun for you as watching professional basketball. You avert your eyes when a woman with an incredible pair of tits approaches because even though it is written into your DNA and your psyche to admire a fine pair of milk wagons you have been reprogrammed to believe that the only part of a woman you may admire is her mind.
I spent years doing shit I simply didn't want to do. I spent days at the mall. I watched horrible movies where men and women talked and talked and talked and there was not a single explosion, car chase or pair of tits. I ate salads. I picked out paint samples and fabric samples and carpet swatches.*
I hit bottom when I found myself alone on a Saturday afternoon and, not knowing how to occupy myself...I watched Oprah. I watched a full hour of Oprah and when it was over I felt the darkness in the depths of my own despair. My life had hit a dead end. I had stopped being a man for so long I had forgotten how to be one. I looked in the mirror and saw my loafers and the elastic waistband in my pants. I looked at my home and I saw pastels everywhere. I had crashed into the embankment of life.
Great story.