Busy weekend, if you define “busy” as having all your time taken by a few things, and not having enough time for everything else. I was in the library, mostly. I trained and I ate and I slept deeply and long, waking up in the usual state: pissed off and with a ragingly huge erection.

Both weekend mornings I grunted angrily out of bed, dressed quickly and headed back into my secret spot in the old library, the west wing amongst the old books, and grappled with the things I’m too thick-headed to understand quickly. It can take a few rounds. It usually does. I have to pound stuff into my head to learn it, that’s just been the way of me.

I really have to work at it. I have to work at concentrating and really getting stuff through to myself. There are times when I think I understand something pretty well, only to find that when I try to explain the thing back to myself I realize that I’m just a friggin’ idiot. That’s maybe 80% of the time. The other 20% my idiocy is simply explicit.

Something that’s becoming clearer to me as time goes on and I supposedly grow as an individual is that I’m a mostly physical being, and less social and intellectual. I’m more caveman, I guess. I used to think that it was some kind of misdirected or unresolved psychological baggage, maybe stunted from the past,  that someday it would just stop and I’d be left as a normal-type dude, someone who’s able to work at a desk and have a normal family life and just conform in most ways to what this time and place seems to be made of, and be happy about it all.  But as I get older, in my early 30s now, I see that this isn’t some kind of latency, not some kind stunted growth. My nature is physical over intellectual, and my strivings tend to be the same.

I am happiest and most tranquil after exerting myself, working hard, sweating and bleeding it out. I like to build stuff and look at it when I’m done, even if it’s a worthless piece of shit. I like to manipulate my physical environment, to create spaces that are mine, and for the feeling of interacting with stuff. I like the contact, I like moving heavy things around, and placing things carefully and purposefully, holding them tightly together or ripping them uncarefully apart. I like getting scrapped up and calloused. I can’t stand offices and office life and can’t work in that environment and amongst the douchey fucks who work there. Classrooms are just as nasty to me and I can’t stand the academy and all its absurdities, people teaching stuff they hardly know anything about, people who have less wisdom than the guy who stands on the corner of my block, yet “teach” others how things are… how they’re supposed to think, how they’re supposed to write… fuck all that shit.

I need strong boots on my feet and pants that don’t need ironing. I need my spaces to be unfragile so I can move about freely and do the things I need to do without worrying about stuff rattling or falling as I move past. Apartment life is hard for me.

Lately my body is raging. There are days when I wake up so hard and huge that I’m beside myself. I can feel my heartbeat in my dick and it takes every ounce of me to resist thinking about how badly I want that person from my past, just to be there for that moment, for them to know that of all the people I dream about when I’m in that state, that I still want them, to give it to them, for them to want it so badly and to take it.

I’m sure that moment is full of every piece of psychological baggage imaginable. After every weird, dream– the dinosaurs and wishing wells, and super babes who want every drop of me–  and when every cell in my body is functioning with one supremely unified goal in mind…

…there’s no end to this sentence.

I wonder if some day that just stops happening.

Why not just go get it– why the torture? Little monkeys, I don’t want to grab every opportunity with every attractive option. I want to be the hold out, the one that few women get to know. It means something more to me. I don’t want to just masturbate with someone else’s body. If you think about it in that way– masturbating with someone else’s body– it’s pretty gross. That’s a helpful metaphor for when I get weak. And that happens. But I handle it. I have my shower and my training and my fighting and my late night library headache sessions and my rages.

On days like today I realize I never really left age 18 or so. I still have that energy, the always-on anger and dissatisfaction with so much. It’s never left me, nor did the idiotic attitude problems or my retardedness, my inability to just relax about shit. How fucked is it to wake up with fists clenched, ready to jump into the day smashing holes in everything, while simultaneously hindered by the largest throbbing hardons possible.

Happy Monday you docile little creatures around me, better stay out of my way.