Posted by alephalpha0

limits and memories are mutable

A new experience occurred concurrently and in step with a new high water mark of the extremes I will go to in pursuit of my PNP fantasy. I was grooving in the mental playground that is chaturbate. On my bed, one of my dildos sliding in and out of my hole, trying to ration and make my meager shard supply last. I try to be a “good host” and welcome everyone who stumbles upon my broadcast page. I’m better @ sometimes than others, and honestly there are several username/chat keywords I key into and pay better attention to. Perv, spun, cloudy, daddy, and pig are of course some of them. Anything with the connotation of Texas and specifically FTW really get my attention. I was chatting with a pervy master-type guy somewhere in Texas who was flowing along with the fantasy of keeping me as a constantly spun tweaker whore, when someone with the string ‘ftworth’ in his username entered my chat and started chatting openly asking how my supply of clouds was and wondering if I wanted to share his.

The running sum of my past actions and decisions when it comes to being offered the value meal gift of a place to go chill and get high for free will show that I am easy to convince it’s a good idea and staart out fully gunghoo about the operation. Especially if the dude shows any interest or adeptness (eg, talking a good talk and pushing up promises) in being or using a twisted kept-spun bottom. Every single time I am fed this full-blown load of bullshit from a man who is anywhere near reasonably handsome in my regard, I jump right back into the sureity that this time it’s going to be different. This time, he will fulfill my deepest darkest fantasies and truly inhabit his promised role and know what the fuck to continually do it.

Will, his name turned out to be, ubered me over to his apartment post haste and I was soon greeted by his larger than life frame and personality. He had not lied to me, his age was correct and the picture he had sent, although a couple years old and at a weird angle, wasn’t photoshopped or altered in any way. He was early 60s, 5 foot 10ish inches, and roughly 300 pounds. All that had been discussed/slated to happen prior to my arrival was me continuing my journy to maintain my high, him enjoying sucking down on my cock and eating my ass, and finding some guys to swing by the apt and breed me. Puffing on the pipe, he and I continued the pervy talk and he asked me if I slammed and if I could administer, I do and I can, was my reply. He whipped up two points and mine was a healthier dose than I can recollect taking. The next hour was spent by me trying to find a vein, any vein in his swollen body, Arms, legs, feet were all painstakingly gone over. Even his throat and underarms were considered to no avail. ……


After writing on this for a good few days, I have lost my interest in telling this story, and feel that it’s only become a gory self-masturbatory trek through uninteresting subject matter. The point is thus: I was slammed with the highest amount of meth up to date, became very fucking high and allowed a stranger to eat shit out of my ass hole while I was sitting on his rim chair. my hard limits seem to not be as hard as they once were. and i cannot with any certainty say what is my rock bottom or a general boundary to myself at this current time.

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Clarity Statement

9 times out of 10, our hearts just get dissolved. I want a better place, or just a better way to fall.’ — Issac Brock.

This is my story. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

What I’m setting out to do with this online blog of mine is not groundbreaking or cutting edge. Other, better, writers than I have created amazing meldings of laser focused sociological commentary and literary wit and grace when they put pen to paper. To be honest, were I to take the time to deeply contemplate my motives and the scope of what I hope to accomplish in the most meagre way feasible… I wwant to stop now. It’s going to be awkward but honest going forward from here. I’m going to try and not sugar coat details, or omit things to protect and oblige the social norms and mores I’ve been bucking for the past decade. Oh fuck, I’m pompous.. I’m also going to try and not make these postings into a pity party or go the other extreme and glorify my actions, thoughts, and lifestyle. Hunter S. Thompson keeps running through my mind, and for good reason. He is one of the archetypes I will undoubtedly continue to compare each and every word i type out against.

When I read his essays and novels, there were not many moments where I really wanted to be there in the thick of his insanity with him. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas remains to this day one of the scariest and hardest to sit still and watch movies I’ve ever seen. Fuck, tangential as fuck. THE POINT. My goal, my scope, my hope for cartharsis is thus: I am a 36 year old queer male who is near hopelessly addicted to methamphetamine. I have been in various stages and swatches of the spectrum of actively using it since roughly the beginning of 2011. Further clarification is that I was also diagnosed HIV positive, with a cd4 count and viral load that placed me well within the scope and classification of AIDS on the ides of March 2011. The timing of when I rolled my first bowl is not completely fixed in chronological timing for me, but I know that they are basically dovetailing coconcurrent issues in my psyche.

Sadly. I am not alone in my tweakertude. There is an almost unspoken, untalked about, unrecognized epidemic that is deeply and thoughly entrentched in the gay community. PNP. Party and Play. “” WhaTs up man? How’s your night been? Wanna smoke and fuck all night?”” This is where my hope and concern lie. It is a highly insular society that exists within the already highly cliqueish and plastic-superficial-worshipping society that the gay culture has sadly become.1 There are undoubtedly unnumbered reasons for it, but unless you have had the misfortune to be introduced into the pnp lifestyle chances are you will remain oblivious to the breadth and depth of the epidemic. I admit that it has been a good minute since I allowed myself the time to be nerdy and skim through collegiate quarterlies, but I’m willing to stake my large share of shit-all that there are not many inquiries being generated into either the root causes OR the possible theraputic solutions and methods to mitigate the trickling loss of human souls and life that will continue to grow in magnitude upon the altar of this drug.

Space Cowboy over and out.

[1] Just as a side note, it deeply hurts my soul to think about what the yearly Pride celebration has become for the doe-eyed faggots of today. Smirnoff floats, official sponsorship of Levis Shit-Kicker 501s and shadey-heavy-handed faux Drag Queens abound while counter culture queers and punks and the stringinent anti heteronormative nonpuritanical gay men are no longer allowed a seat in the culture’s zeitgeist. the stonewall riots were for naught. we took it upon ourselves to subsumme and internalize the heteronormative mentality and thus made our existence less threatening to straight mainstream society at large. But you know… The Gays get Mimosas every week at sunday brunch, so it’s all good..

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Genesis part 3

I’m walking to IHOP on University along Rosedale. It’s 7:50 in the morning and I’m going to do something productive with my day for the first time in about 7 months. I’ve been up all night trying to calm my nerves and get my mind under wraps. And honestly all I can think about right now is just how fucking goofy people’s faces look while they’re driving and looking into the Sun.

I’m still a little bit high so of course the slut comes out. With it being late July in Texas, the temperature is already up in the upper 80s this early in the morning and the humidity is sweltering. I’m sweating like a whore in church. I’ve already taken off my shirt and there I go walking half naked down the road. Got some good double takes and long stares from commuters as I pass by.

I am going to do something that I have not done in a very long time: that is devote my time and my energy to somebody else’s schedule and profit for pay. Two obvious outcomes here, either I make it through and adjust to being on a timeclock, or someone’s going to die today.

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mind stress

Ugh fuck. Too much of nothing and I’m bleeding out stress. I exude and become one with it. Mind stress. I’m clean but not sober, haven’t had any meth in a good while, and I’m losing my goddamn mind. Time slowly marches onward and I feel the slow passing of the seconds like knife cuts across my skin. I can’t go anywhere due to COVID, can’t have any company due to COVID, so I just sit in my room or sleep in my room. The only break in the monotony are meal times (8, 12, 5) and when I go outside in the heat to smoke a black and mild or vape on my stick. I’m broke, the very definition of broke, and that limits my options even further. I’m stuck in this moment and this moment will never end.

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it’s daunting again, the put words out onto a screen. i’ve tried this so many damned times since my heyday in high school. to journal into the void. to try and generate a space in the cyber ether that i’m proud of. or at least enjoy cultivating and maintaining.

the general idea, surrounding rootofpi’s reinception, at least in the initial stages is thus: using the command line to manipulate and display images interests me greatly. there are multiple tools and setups and configurations to tweak not to mention the simplest piece of all ‘tweaks’i get to fiddle with. when i’m porting an img through catimg into the ansi echo stdout, i can change the fidelity of the output based upon which orientation my phone is in. i come across a new sparkly piece of the puzzle of unidentified wide beyond every day. it also takes over. most of my time alone is spent gazing into the screen.

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