Tim Barrus New York Times
I am retarded.
In a conventional lifeline, the routines of ordinary individuals keep the human brain afloat. You have your routine. The world is just fine. There is a methododical impulse that has to do with measurement. We are constantly measuring which also happens while we dream, and the brain is deciding which memories to keep, and which memories get filed, and which memories – hit delete.
All of this is normal.
I am inordinately jealous of the median brain. I could have been a plumber, a baker, a dishwasher, a pizza maker, a bus driver, a janitor, a desk clerk; any job that is not too complicated because I am retarded.
My brain is a zip code of habitual flashing images, not even languages as we understand language, languages are nothing to me, they bore me, they reinforce the rules of auditory confinement. Mostly, I tune them out because I get away with the optics of nodding my head as if I am listening, scanning the room with a smile (I am looking for things like the police), and crossing my legs because I want to feel my dick. Uttering the correct sounds like hhmmm.
I will come clean. I can do all of this – literally shutting everything else out – and cum. In my pants.
I remember the first time I did this at the age of twelve. I was in science class. I already knew everything that stupid class had to offer. Swimming practice was an hour away from the start of science class, and I had this big problem with the swimming team.
I was a jock back them. It didn’t last because I am a fraud. The only reason I tried out for the swimming team was because I knew I could easily beat every kid in that ridiculous school, and I could put my trophies in the face of authority. Thusly proving I could be validated if not by them.
But there was a caveat many of those boys suspected but never, ever articulated. Not even once.
I wanted to see them naked.
I drank the sight of it in like blood. To this day, I can recall those memories of those boys naked with an accuracy that suprises even me. Down to the smallest pubic hair inside a butt crack. When they dove into the water, I would stand behind them to see their holes.
It was a problem.
I would become erect.
The other boys would ignore it. Challenging me in any way was a big mistake. Instead of being challenged, I would get invitations from coaches to join various teams. The other boys could not compete with that. My body came through for me, athletics was nothing, I broke every record in track. They stopped asking me to try out. Just join the fucking team. I ran the student council like a bitch.
Being erect was simply uncomfortable. My cock hurt.
To abrogate erection on the swim team, I would cum in my pants in science class, and just get it over with.
Then, I could go for an hour without an erection. But just barely that.
I could will myself to cum when I wanted to cum. I could do it in front of other boys, who would all look away. I was taunting them in much the same way I like being in your face with writing what I want to write. It is bullshit to think the job of the writer is to make the reader comfortable. I want to make the reader cum in his pants, them run home to his mommy.
The world is composed of two kinds of people. Voyeurs and voyeurs.
The prison of belonging to any club of fetishes bores me half to death.
The ability to sperm at will is not a fetsh. It is an event. There was not a single boy on that swim team who did not proposition me for sex. I was expected to keep this secret although the hypocrisy was that they all shared the same secret.
Sex with them was blackmail and power.
I could walk out of that school whenever I wanted, and I was never called out for it. Teachers can be blackmailed, too.
Usually, I just wanted to walk to the public library because there was so much to learn there. The was nothing to learn in that stupid school.
I did not understand theoretical, quontum physics. How can two things be in different places at the same time.
But that is what memory does. Theoretical physics that reflects the equations inside our brains as a science is really only beginning now.
https://www.pinterest.com/timbarrus/tim-barrus-au-delà-de-ça/
I recommend any of the books you might find on this site. Unless you are in any way religious. Religion is a fetish, too, and one that makes many men cum in their pants. Naked Jesus on a cross. Please.
I would fuck those boys in the cloakroom.
In fact, breaking the school rules could really get me off. Cuming in science class was the epitome of desire. It was also a symptom of boredom. My brain is not like any other brain you might know. It had to leave that town to survive. I am retarded.
Mainly, my life on this planet has been lived in a ubiquitous agony. If I ever met you, I would not like you. Other people are not paradise. They are, indeed, hell. I know the people I know. I fuck with half of them. The other half are completely marginal.
Today, men pay me to simply show them my cock going hard. I can do it for money. I cost a lot of money. My life requires a lot of money, and I deal with people on a daily basis who would, if they could, and mainly they can, put themselvers in one way or the other, in your face. It’s called hiding in broad daylight. I see it as just another appetite. Desire is ephemeral. Erections are manipulated accidents.
Paradise lost is an illusion. Age is irrelevantt. Paradise lost leaves out the seekers. The part of the self no one can lose. Paradise lost has lost authenticity. Why are you here writ large is why are you here as a lost individual, and all of us are lost. That there remains an internalized actuality that you exist transcending less validated neurological information like a sense of justice. Our brains know justice. Equality. Intuition. Depression. What is suicide in the face of oppression and death – not a dichotomy – but a statement that you decide because the life belongs to you.
The life of any culture can be evaluated through the lens of data and suicide which is different than attempted suicide which is a statement, too. One in which there is a glimmering of hope such as memory.
A verisimilitude as more that just an axiom. A legitimacy we understand exists or does not exist or only exists in a context.
If everything is lost, then why are we here.
It is the way our brains are built that resists the veracity of death. Because you are a you that is here. You can see yourself and us. To lose you, we grieve. Elephants grieve. Dogs grieve. Horses grieve. Our brains become distressed. Wretched. Sorrow at our own lostness.
If the species doesn’t lament, the species can’t collectively bond, one brain to another brain, ib such ways as to problem-solve, and love. We have lost our country. Our futures are not stable. There is an evil among us. Surgery must remove it from the body politic.