So I stopped masturbating just over a week ago.
I wanted to cut out one of my escapes. You know, so I can get back to real life. I sit with screens and play video games or fuck around on the internet or watch porn so I can forget just how empty my days are. The despair peaks right at the end of the day when I get back to my flat. I’m tired. My adrenal glands are pumped dry by stimulants. I guilt-trip myself for having done nothing productive that day, that I effectively extended my stay in hell for another twenty-four hours. So I let my sober-self press the eject button. I roll a joint and get into bed. I watch a DotA cast while chowing down on a shitload of McDonalds I picked up on the way home. I feel like masturbating, so I do. I keep watching videos until I pass out.
What’s great about this routine is that, for the most part, there’s no pain. I breathe in the smoke and let the cannabinoids punch through my alveolar walls into my bloodstream. A few seconds later, bam, I’m gone. No more angst, no more despair, no more hopelessness. Just a space where I feel no guilt indulging in impulsive gratification. On the other hand, it’s a sad fucking way to live. Continue reading