My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

I don’t have all kinds of time to write this stuff, I’m a blogger, not a novelist. An hour a day is a luxury, and that involves color correcting photos and waiting for this shitty wi-fi to hook me up. So I’m gonna talk fast and honest about something that’s been on my mind for ten years. Everything is sexual. Women don’t want to be sex objects? Ladies, if I could get it in your ear, I’d love you for your brain. But it don’t work that way.

Take a look at our fag brothers. They’re like monkeys, touching and sucking and fucking each other. I don’t happen to be very gay, so I want to climb all over women. Big tall ones. Fat ones. Women skinny as a rail that want to whip my ass. It doesn’t matter. In church I’m thinking about it. God knows. He must know. He created me in his image. Women were an afterthought born of my rib. Rib like a bone, I’m constantly trying to get one more in. Aspiring to Godhood.

I have a new girlfriend. The last one totally wrote me off. The new one wonders about me. I don’t get this world. When I was younger I was very compassionate. I used to work with developmentally disabled people. I also worked with accident victims. There was one guy, Ron, in his 50′s. He crashed his truck with his date by his side when he was 18 years old. A big accident, broken glass, the truck out of control and off the road. She got out of the truck and stood there in shock. The pickup on it’s side in the weeds, two wheels spinning. She walked back to the truck and Ron was still inside.

“I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my arms,” he said. “I’m scared.”

He remembered it so clearly. Laying in a bed in government housing in Dover New Hampshire. I got paid to physically push him onto his side and dress his bed sores and wipe his ass. Then I rolled him up on the other side and took care of that stuff. Your skin turns white when it’s dead and moist. Six inch rings of blood on the surface. Change a pad. Rub on ointment. Bizarre. The blood pools right beneath the surface of the last layer of skin.

Unplug the catheter from the bag and hook it into a fresh empty one. They were clear plastic bags, like a giant Capri-Sun. I’d jam the tube in. One end went into a hole in his stomach. It was important to note how much he’d evacuated. “Don’t let that get dirty,” he’d say, “or it could kill me.”

His dick atrophied. I’d never been so intimate with one. It was tiny.

“I got so embarrassed in the hospital the first year. Pretty nurses came in and I had a boner I couldn’t control. It was automatic. But I got older and it never happens anymore. Not that I could feel it.”

His doctor prescribed him a penis pump. Purely psychological. Ron told me it was in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. I asked him I if I could use it in the bathroom.

A penis pump creates a vacumn, so that everything stretches. It was the biggest my dick had ever been. I came out and showed Ron.

“You’re like a hoss,” he said, in his Dover accent. But as soon as I released the tension it went back to normal. I got a staff infection on my balls a few days later. Everything sexual is repercussive.

I just wanted to say that we are living creatures and things can go wrong with us. What we call wrong. Things can become more difficult. But we want to have sex. Or talk about it. Or listen to stories. Or wonder. Or try to get away from it.