July 1, 2004

Forgive me Father, for I have not sinned

A friend of mine, or rather an aquaintance on my LJ buddy list, has taken to beginning each post with a confession:
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I have had sex three times since my last blog post.
He then continues with whatever he had planned: no sex talk, no dirty details, nothing. He's not that great looking, and though I've never met his girlfriend, I'm willing to bet she's a dog as well, so I don't mind too much. The thought of him getting off isn't going to inspire me to do some one-handed reading. In fact, it might ensure that both hands stay firmly on the keyboard for a while.

It annoys the hell out of me. Ugly people should not be having sex, or at the very least they shouldn't be having procreative sex, or at least sex that could lead to procreation should the condom break, and they definately shouldn't be talking about it. Their genetic pools should come to a complete stop during their generation. The fact that he's rubbing it in when I can't even find someone else to rub mine is unacceptable.

I've been thinking about retaliating with a confession of my own. Keep in mind I'm not Catholic, and have never confessed, but I still want to.
Forgive me Father, for I have not sinned. It has been two hundred twenty-six days since I last had sexual relations.

Then I realized that I had counted how long it had been since I had gotten any action. No bumping nor humping, no gagging, no swallow or spit, no unfamiliar holes or unfamiliar poles, no morning after, no nothing for over six thousand hours. I haven't even held hands with an ulterior motive, for crissakes.

There's something wrong with the world when the number of celibate days trumps your IQ. I'm beginning to think a coup is in order. Aphrodite obviously gets a vote of "No Confidence" in my book.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.