Daydreams and Sugar.

Sleeping too much or not enough seems to have the same effect. A fuzzy halo on reality, amplified by sugar. And caffeine. The first cup of coffee in the morning kicks the entire thing into overdrive. Blurring my consciousness just enough so that I gloss over the little details that annoy me to no end. At the same time it's refreshingly weird and crisp. Ramping up my perception so that I may notice the daily patterns and occurrences that I find cute.

Platitudes aplenty.

When that first whiff of beany goodness hits my nostrils and spirals into the old olfactory bulb I know the day will have at least a base level of enjoyment in store for me. Sugar, caffeine and the odd dose of nicotine in the form of a cigarette may not be terribly good for the body but it does wonders for the mind. It's fan-fucking-tastic, with a dash of self-destruction thrown in. Making you feel a tad more alive.

There cums the neighbourhood.

The other night me and the girlfriend were reliving shared but separate childhood memories by re-watching The Neverending Story. It was a spur of the moment type thing, so we got started rather late. As we were approaching the half-way mark we found ourselves getting the mid-night giggles. That stage of tiredness when everything seems rather funny. We were chatting in hushed and clipped tones and having a laugh at how poorly some of the elements in the movie had aged. During this most pleasant of times we get interrupted by a loud banging on the wall followed by an equally loud yet muffled voice. - "I'm actually trying to sleep!" Or something to that effect came pouring through the wall we share with this apparently grumpy denizen. Most rude. That I had been forced to overhear said person have loud and obnoxious mid-day sex just a few days prior is of no concern. Apparently. Clamorous Afternoon Boinking - Perfectly acceptable. Average Nightly Conversation - Horrendous. We weren't having a rip-roaring booming time, with rowdy cheers and boisterous applauds. The volume was in every respect, reasonable. A bit too reasonable even. Had it sounded like twenty-odd burly men performing heavy construction in the middle of an ongoing party as a gaggle of geese were set ablaze for the party crowd's amusement I should think my keen and sharp neighbour would have hesitated before bothering me with information on his sleeping habits. The silly git. The addition of the word "actually" in his improvised and analog cross-domicile radio theatre opens up a whole other level of  possible interpretation. Did he actually expect us to know that his and our headboards were adjacent? What then must be his point with such rambunctious three o'clock sex? I dare not speculate any further into such perverted goings-on that must be...going on. I quite often over-complicate things. He's probably just a self-centered asshole. Which is an interesting idea, in and off itself.

Accessorize, exercise, jizz.

Sex as a subject has become rather pathetic, to be frank. The myth that those who sleep with a lot of random people are really confident is complete and utter horse shit. In my experience men and women who behave in this way are in fact incredibly insecure. Constantly seeking confirmation and reassurance that they are as beautiful as they have convinced themselves. Is that acting secure? Turning sex into some sort of power game or just immediate gratification drains it of all passion. I don't want sex to just be pieces of meat flapping against one another. Marinated in alcohol and anxiety. People shouldn't be picked up like accessories. You are not the centre of the cosmos. Your fleeting happiness is not the answer to the mysteries of life. Get over yourself. And the two of you clumsily jamming your genitals together on your room mates well-worn old couch is not passionate and sexy. No matter how many times you repeat this lie to yourself in an attempt to maintain that  hard on/stay wet. I gave up one night stands some time ago. At first it wasn't a moral choice or even one that came out of any deeper introspection. It was just a path taken out of a practical nature. People in general are absolutely terrible at fucking. Just awful. The quality was never as good as with someone I got a little bit familiar with. People who have such low self-esteem that they pathologically need to swallow another human beings bodily fluids every weekend tend to not have been in many meaningful relationships of any greater lengths. Therefore they have, out of a strictly numerical standpoint, fucked far fewer times. Practice makes perfect. There appears to be a tipping point where the quality of the bedroom shenanigans and the quantity of sexual partners converge and then invert. Both in a grander scheme and in specific situations. Taking pride in appearing sexually attractive to people who will fuck just about anything is like being proud that you are Garry Glitter's search engine of choice. It's at best quite meaningless, at worst loathsome. Tickling the fancy of someone you find to be truly unique. Having them share their innermost contrivances. Being able to disappoint in a painful way. That is sexy. That is beautiful. Poking someone in the groin while trying to refrain from spewing because of the motion and too much tequila is not. Unknown people are not. Acting tough will never be.