No Carrier

I miss my bike. In the warm moments of summer, it became a meditative oasis for me. Pumping through alleys and exploring the unexamined spaces of a huge city, I recaptured some empty part of myself. Without it, I feel a little bit lost. I detest people who profess a self-righteous affinity for biking, and maybe this post ought to inspire a bit of self-hatred. But I miss my bike.

The Fairbairn-Sykes Method

Some months ago, my sex drive spiked, attempting an asymptotic embrace with the y-axis. It was simple to write it off as an effect of  the testosterone surge from muscling up. As someone who's taken hormones on and off, it's awfully easy for me to assign an endocrine origin to my state of mind. Perhaps it was comforting to blame my feelings on some externalized internal source because of exactly how bad it got. I started thinking about fucking at unsexy times. I wasn't mentally disrobing people so much as psychically ripping their clothes off. The volume of my carnal reveries was a familiar relic of teenage boyhood, but their bestial intensity caught me off guard.

Now, my sex drive has fallen down a well. I've gone from onanizing twice/thrice a day to a single half-hearted go-round per diem. That I've even kept up at that is part habit, part addictive personality traits kicking in. Ever miss something that you just spent the last six months willing to leave? It's hypocritical to complain, but there was a vitality in that lusty tinnitus that I've been missing for a while. I don't know how to date, and every so often I lament the absence of romance in my life, soliloquizing in the small hours. Really, though, it's nobody's fault but my own. Princess Charming isn't just gonna ride up in her F-Body one day and take me away. Having a constant desire for sex has motivated me to actually try to get up with somebody.

This post will get published early Christmas morning, though I've been working on it for the past few weeks. I'm on the second year of my new Christmas tradition: watching the ultimate holiday movie, Die Hard. John McClaine is a Yuletide trinity, serving as Jesus (his stocking feet crucified on a glass floor), Santa (“Now I have a machine gun, Ho-ho-ho”), and Krampus (he kills a lot of naughty terrorists). But I'm kinda bummed, because I have no one to watch this Christmas classic with. So, next year, I will have a special someone to watch this damn movie with. Even if I have to hire them.