Living Single: The Best Decision of My Life

In the course of being a permanently single man I have on occasion wondered what my life would have been like if I decided on legal or other prescriptive coupledom.

But today, after spending several hours more than enough in the company of married folk, I have confirmed that the best decision I have ever made in my life was/is to live single and unencumbered to determine what happiness means.

Before you get all twisted about intimacy and getting laid let me add considered caution.  I can assure you that neither of these conditions are positively tied to being married/coupled.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that the causal relationship between marriage and intimacy and getting laid is mostly, if not entirely, adverse.

And so if you crave affirmation, being adored, emotional security and faithfulness, get a dog or better yet, get two or more.

Now I know there are a few of you who are too attached to religious manifestation and at this point you are probably thinking that marriage is what God intended for purposes of procreation and overcoming the reality that life is nothing more than one absurd moment after the other.

I will accept that nonsense as soon as you of the frock and pants above the ankles crowd accept same sex marriage as divinely ordained.  Until then, save your closed argument for similarly challenged friends and family.

Anyway, there is not one specific moment in the last few hours that caused me to write this hasty post.

And no I am not angry for the hell of being angry and just venting at married/coupled folk; this sh*t here is a lopsided critique of the greatest universal pretense that renders its participants less than alive.

But I do not want to front as though this post is not brought on by dumb ass married people who are my friends.

So, somewhere during lunch today I listened to a woman tell the table that her husband who sat barely breathing next to her, had the joy of being married to her for 57 years.  This she did right after she reduced his cajones to nothing more than a mangled wreck for all to stare at in absolute bewildered amusement.

And while she did this her daughter who shares her mother's ugly genes, did the same to my friend.

This is not the first time I have witnessed this accident by design.  And it won't be the last.

In Portland, like Tampa, I have in recent weeks had the excruciating pain of being at too many tables with wives who have similarly reduced the men in their lives to mangled cajones.

Now it would be easy to just say that it is all the fault of the other big heterosexual lie, the so called fairer sex.

Truth is my rant is squarely aimed at weak male friends who cannot separate their need to breath from the delusional certainty of having p*ssy secured at home.

I am not about to turn my back on these friendships.  I am, however, reducing our interaction to an occasional email.  And I will point out with considered kindness that they are not free and manly simply because they can send links to porno sites in-between moments of projective liberatory wanking.

Before the married set among you start sending me comments about my hatred for women and marriage let me assure you that I think there are at least two couples I know who were mostly happy and married.

Unfortunately none of these folks knew each other or even lived on the same continent and their isolated happiness was more likely brought on by the cover of medication scripted to help with the absurdity of putting up with the destructive sh*t of marriage/coupledom.

My point here is that life is too f*cking short to be stressed by the sh*t of pretense.

For me marriage/coupledom is mostly an oppressive delusion born out of our biological inferiority.

However, thinking folks can compartmentalize that inferiority and still get laid often enough not to have to worry about biological needs.

Oh and before you call to tell me about your soul mate and the textures of loving deeply and monogamously let me save you time by telling you to sod off in advance.

I refuse to be oppressed by the bullsh*t Hallmark sells even if it only exists because too many of us are willing to believe it for the purpose of having something to believe in.

Now I have to plot a revolution to get my boys (and some of my girls) to raise their middle finger in defiance of being permanently unhappy until death.

I harbor no illusions.

Onward!