Six Weeks of Alcoholism

13th March, 2012
Alcoholism & Depravity

(Thirteen Days without Mushrooms)​

I crack open a beer and flick through the chubby mag. A middle-aged woman is stripping. She has a sweet face; no make-up, glasses, imperfect complexion. The first shot is of her big natural tits, bulging through her dress, followed by a bra shot: an ordinary looking non-lacy undergarment supporting her huge saggy tits. There is something oedipal about tits. People frown at Freud. They say he’s a pervert. Really, he’s just unafraid to admit something all of us know. This obsession that man has with tits, it’s oedipal. Nipples; we grow up sucking on them for nutrition and end up sucking on them for sexual gratification. It’s not really a leap to link to, psychologically, link the two. I’m not saying that people want to literally fuck their own mothers. Neither was Freud.

Ignorant people who’ve never bothered to read Freud often insist that he said things he never said. He was an explorer. He famously used himself as a subject for psychological journeys. At the time, this was unheard of. But, given the disconnection from person to person, it is really the only thing that makes sense. Art is psychology; there is no difference between expression and expression. Fiction allows us to distance ourselves from the truth. It isn’t real, so we are more likely to be open-minded towards it. Homicide, rape, sexuality, depression: these things are easier to digest when they aren’t real. Freud is too real for most people. The depths he is willing to sink to within his own psyche are far beyond that of a “normal” person.

Tits are oedipal; there is a direct relationship between sexual and practical function. For most of history, women have fulfilled the role of wife and mother simultaneously. Boys grow up to be men, nurtured by their mothers, and seek out women to be mothers to both their children and – to a certain extent – themselves. Before the declaration of equality, and the beginning of the transition from a gender oriented society to a neutral one, wives and mothers had the same function as far as husbands and sons were concerned; excluding sex, of course.

In the early twentieth century, boys grew up with a maternal figure in their lives. Their mothers provided them with clean clothes and food, until they became men. Then, they left their childhood home and replaced the mother figure with a wife. The wife, in those days, fulfilled all of the same duties as their mother used to; excluding sex, of course.

So where does Oedipus fit in the animal kingdom. People use nature as a control group for humanity: nature is natural; humanity is an experiment gone wrong. If Oedipus doesn’t exist in nature, then it shouldn’t exist in man. But this is bullshit. Man is hyper-real. We are more natural than nature because we are conscious of terms like “natural” and “nature”. Oedipus exists in humanity because we understand ourselves so well. Freud was not a pervert; he was enlightened.

My cat believes that I am its mother. When cats “sharpen their claws” on your lap, what they are actually doing is kneading; kittens knead their mothers in order to promote lactation. It is an instinctive act. My cat, she does this to me, because I am a surrogate mother figure. In the animal kingdom breasts and lactation have nothing to do with sex, but maternity is clearly interchangeable. If you accept that a cat can substitute a human for a mother, then it is quite easy to wrap your head around the idea of a man substituting a wife for his mother.

Women often seek men who are like their fathers. This is no co-incidence; it’s substitution. Men like tits. Babies like tits. This is no co-incidence; it is, more or less, substitution. In terms of anthropology, it has been suggested that men are attracted to women with large breasts due to their ability to feed. That is, it is instinctive to pursue women with large breasts and child-bearing hips in order to insure the health of your prospective family. This doesn’t explain sucking on nipples as sexual act. The worship of tits has occurred for so long that we take it for granted that they are an erogenous zone. But there are countless sensitive places on the human body. We label people who like feet as “fetishists” and people who like breasts as “normal”. Really, they are the same. Using animals as the control group, neither breasts nor feet are sexual organs. Breasts are stranger than feet, in a sense, considering the maternal and reproductive implications. I like tits, I don’t care about the oedipal implications; the more complex we become the better as far as I’m concerned. Everything must be pursued, until the very end, before we turn around.

Her tits hang down to her belly button; big nipples, almost handfuls in themselves. She spreads her cunt; it’s wet. I want to fuck it until my cock bleeds. I’ve always had a fantasy for older women; fantasies, being things you want to do but decide that you can’t. Where, and how, do you find a woman to fuck that is twenty years older than you? I don’t know. But, I’d love to get real nasty with an older experienced woman. This wet pussy I’m looking at. No doubt, neglected; not given the attention it deserves. I want to worship it. Not on the page; in real life. I want to bury my face into a middle-aged cunt and eat my way out. It saddens me that this will probably never happen; that I am restricted to woman my own age; that I restrict myself. It saddens me that my fantasies are unfulfilled; that my fantasies are cruel.

Then again, if I can go out and pursue heroin on the streets surely I can go out and pursue some middle-aged pussy. The thing that worries me is where does it end? I feel like the more let myself go the more likely I am to let go completely; which is what I want. I fear what I want. We all do. We tell ourselves we want bullshit so that we can ignore what we really desire. We are perpetually unsatisfied; failure is ever-present in society. It’s easier to believe in laws than to believe in yourself; easier to believe in God. These things are finite, they are manageable; structural abstract nonsense providing – what we think are – much needed limitations to the infinitely variant.

I have been pursuing nothing, the infinite nothingness, for many years. Some people call deconstruction enlightenment. It is impossible to say what is at the end of the journey. The further you go, this doubt increases; the more you deconstruct preconceptions and human hurdles, the less you are inclined to continue. Until, eventually, you hit a big fucking snag. Holy people are not holy; they are only holy by contrast, to non-holy people. Absolute nothing has not been achieved. I’m not sure that it can be achieved. Though, maybe I’m just saying that to give myself an excuse to anchor. It seems to me that complete deconstruction, or “enlightenment” if you like, is like dividing zero by one. The first creature to evolve from this planet was not capable of enlightenment. So why should I be? There are always lessons to be learnt. There will always be goals beyond the goals that are visible. It is arrogant to assume, at this arbitrary moment in time, that I am able to achieve infinity. Those who approach the infinite will always approach the infinite; mathematics, with all its flawed human, logic tells us this. But maybe that’s the last step: linking finality with inconclusiveness.

Recently I came to believe in God. I know believe this, faith, to be a hurdle on the path to the actual God. The further you deconstruct, the more frightening it becomes. If you go on a spiritual journey towards nothing and – therefore – distance yourself from the rest of society, after a while religion starts looking pretty good. You find yourself in a void; in an absence of logic and reason; in an absence of everything and anything. The structure provided by religion, when you are lost, is immensely gratifying. But religion, really, is the opposite of religion; organized religion is a mirage one encounters on the way to actual religion. After deconstructing my entire life, and everybody’s lives, over the course of a decade, I became distraught. In a moment of weakness, I chose God. I chose to invent God; to give me an excuse to end my journey towards the infinite.

Man desires closure; man desires finality. We want things to make sense. We don’t want to die, unfinished. But we must. That is the nature of things. And it always will be the nature of things. A million years from now, there will be some other unimaginable form of life. Another million years and something else will live; unimaginable to the unimaginable. I am, in the grander scheme of things, both nothing and everything. I am; it is; we are: infinite.

I microwave some chicken nuggets and masturbate.