By Shumpie Divington
Iâ€™m one of those people who cannot look at someone without imagining sex with that someone. Â Having the misfortune of being mostly heterosexual with said proclivity, this can present egregious problems in a work environment.
I currently occupy an office of 7 lawyers (6 male, one female spouse) 1 accountant (male), and 4 female paralegals/assistants/receptionists other than myself. Â That my occupation of said office is only part-time, I thank fucking Christ.
When I think of the post-modern female, the kind who goes interviewing for bosses instead of the process-typical, I reckon sheâ€™s a pretty cool archetype. Â I refer, of course, to the self sufficient heroine who (eventually, hopefully) might enjoy cognitive implants that stop such behaviors as lusting for bosses, simply because theyâ€™re virile specimens of their sex â€” which they achieve just byÂ beingÂ their sex â€” and whom she must come in contact with 5 out of 7 days weekly. Â Iâ€™d also like to fancy such neural upgrade might possess better spam filtering than current macmail, which has me (27, f) receiving messages for discounted fork lifts, impending AARP memberships, and Rolex watches â€” phenomenally sent from my own address! â€” between the hours of 9 – 11:55 nightly (Pacific Standard).
Some transhumanist solutions to my specific problem might resemble:
1. Immanetizing the eschaton.Â Â Pounce anything that walks, should you strongly feel itâ€™d bring you purpose/satisfaction/your own sexual singularity realized. Â Maybe you could make a career out of it, maybe you just need to accept and explore your hedonism for maximal psychological well being. Â I ainâ€™t judginâ€™.
2. Â Engineered hermaphrodites.Â Oddly enough, Iâ€™ve also often supposed myself one of those disgruntled individuals who at 40 decides they were always meant to be the opposite gender. Such would be my fucking luck. Â Like the 1 out of 100 percent chance of my dental implant not taking. Â I believe it was in the middle of an 11 grade free period when the screw just plopped out of my mouth, having clearly not cottoned to the bovine bone drilled into my jaw for said purpose. Â (See, Iâ€™m already cyborg). Â When will neo-evolutionists solve the hereditary missing tooth problem?! Â Thatâ€™s what I want to know.
3. Â Harness that carnal â€˜idâ€™ in leather and chains, and just get this shit.Â Letâ€™s solve the economic crisis, create some industry, and make it affordable to all start looking like Aftermen already. Â Nine million viewers for Jersey Shore Italia show weâ€™re well past the point of needing to. Â Were Pauly D to invest in futurism he might secure the freedom of never having to style hisÂ blow-out again.
4. Â Interspecies breeding.Â Â Screw humping robots. Â Why not have your pet be your lover? Â Better yet, how â€˜bout we save tigers from extinction for this very purpose? Â The size and scope of a jungle cat would make you feel far less like a pedophile than resorting to your orange tabby. Â And if youâ€™re gonna be a deviant, at least donâ€™t be in Warren Jeffsâ€™ sect. Â Choose bestiality over baby touching, I say. Â Let your own magic stick pave the way to animal enhancement, Mr. Dvorsky. Dolphin blowholes present a whole new precipice for space travel.
5. Â Get your ass to therapy (particularly if your loyalties at all echo the prior suggestion).Â At least until the appropriate neocortical augmentations are available to remedy your problemsÂ forÂ you. Â And for the record, I donâ€™t really think pee-pees should be inserted in Dolphins.
Look: itâ€™s hard enough being single in an egoist fustercluck like LA, particularly as said fuster has turned me full-solipsist, and more particularly as said solipsist is suffering the economy with the rest of you and with one less degree but at least 50mg of mood stabilizers per diem (not including cannabinoids). Â You might find it interesting to note that Iâ€™ve actually maintained this affliction since childhood. Â As early as 8 years old, I lusted not only for most masculine classmates, but also most teachers, preachers, and the occasional cousin (she is Southern, folks). Trust me, Iâ€™ve seen therapists. But alas, thereâ€™s so much else wrong Iâ€™ve yet to even break bread with the topical addiction. Â Although Iâ€™m sure after reading this, plenty of you would argue itâ€™s well worth continued sessions. Â In which case, feel free to utilize PayPal for your contributions to my ailing sanity.
In the meantime, Iâ€™ll continue not having sex. Itâ€™s been 3 weeks for Christâ€™s sakes, and probably because Iâ€™ve only been sober that long and furthermore muting any and all urges by repeated viewing of a Doris Day box set (the younger years, no Rock to wet the bang-a-gay-man fantasy) and avoiding any Christoph Waltz fanvids. Â Thanks YouTube, post-modern jollies, and contemporary noosphere in general for making it just that much easier to stoke an already sparking synapse the shape of Victoriaâ€™s SecretÂ Very Sexy Hiphuggers.
By the way, if I donâ€™t hear from any of you guys for 20 minutes after reading this, Iâ€™ll assume youâ€™re all gratifying yourselves to premonitions of post-women all resembling jailbait.
And yâ€™all thinkÂ IÂ have a problem.
Well, I might. Â I get off on this mong.