Cowardice or Realism?

I fear growing old alone more than anything.

I want to buy a gun as an insurance policy against that happening, so that on my 50th, or 55th, or whatever birthday, if I'm still alone, I'll have my out.

The 5150 complicates this, making it illegal for me to own a gun for 5 years, though I can appeal. Of course, it's easy enough to buy guns, and what do I care if I'm owning it illegally? I only plan to use it once, if ever.

So why all this anticipation of desolate age, why the near-certitude of being alone as the years go by? Why the morbid talk of guns and 'ways out'?

Simply put, I appear to be too diseased to carry on a successful, healthy relationship, though it is what I want more than anything. Some fundamental defect, some twist of helical genetic goo, some repressed trauma, something prevents me from achieving that most elemental of human aspirations, the loving relationship with a partner.

Facts: I'm 44. I've never been married. I'm balding - probably never will be completely bald, but whatever. I'm perpetually overweight, unless I've had a severe (i.e., life-threatening) bout of depression, in which case the pounds just melt away! I'm told I'm not physically unattractive, but then friends say that, right? At my best, I might hit 7 of 10, well-dressed, in my best shape, when I'm "on" in a social situation, surrounded by the magical glow of friends.

So what are the odds that I'll ever be married at this point? Do I have a problem with commitment? Nope. I used to be quite skilled sexually, though that's fallen into such desuetude in the past 2 years that it's hard to say at this point whether it's gone or just in mothballs.

There's just....something wrong. So is it cowardice to plan for a future relationship with a 9mm rather than a wife, or is it just grim realism? After all, in some instances, I insist, suicide is quite clearly a wholly rational choice. The moralists always try to define that possibility out of existence, but I in fact go further.

I think suicide is one of the most human things we do. In committing suicide, all of the things that make us a species unique among all others come together: conceptual reflection on a self, connection of past, present and projection of future, ability to determine material conditions of existence, ability to assess likely outcomes of different hypothetical courses of action, etc.

This was a lot more fun to read when I was writing about memories of busty 8th grade girls and dead Indian porn stars, wasn't it? It's all connected, though, trust me.

So today, while weeping because she won't respond to my email and appears to be abandoning me, despite dozens of promises that she would never do this, I managed somehow to download nearly 400 porn images and came twice. If anybody has a label for that, I'd love to hear it.

"Joyless" doesn't quite begin to describe the experience. Mechanical - or programmatic, actually. First, uhm...let's see...haven't checked these old bookmarks for breast sites in a long time. Anything new there? Mostly dead now, but a couple of images worth getting. Oh, a link to a nylon fetish site I've never heard of...should probably check that out...she used to show up at my apartment every morning in nylons because she knew it would turn me on. Back then our sex life was amazing. Huh...OK, 3 really cute Asian women in nylons, I'll get all of those. What about all the links in this folder called "Porn to check out 5/05"?

Black girls covered in come. Wow....that's.....a lot of come. Thai hookers wearing ridiculous outfits all getting done in really degrading ways by this nasty-looking Brit...I bet he's enjoying his 50s more than I'll enjoy mine. Latina lesbians. Oops, make that "lesbians". Some old links to INSEX photo captures that are dead - those were insanely hot and very disturbing. She used to like to do insanely hot and disturbing things.

I'm coming apart and the pieces don't even have names. I'm entering a hospital tomorrow so we'll see if they can help.