TheBunnyBlog.com - December 6, 2007

I don't get embarrassed any more. I used to be a profoundly self-conscious person, so much so that I could barely function or make simple decisions. "What if's" plagued me.

Buying my boyfriend a Christmas present would take two weeks of thought. What if he wanted a more utilitarian gift? What if he wanted something romantic? Would something romantic be too sappy, and threaten his masculinity?

Life is pretty exhausting if you live it that way. Perhaps you've read the stories I've written about the nervous breakdowns I had in the earlier part of this century? I used to write about them around here as if they were something to be embarrassed by, because ordinary people don't have nervous breakdowns. That's probably what makes them so ordinary. Nervous breakdowns are great. They really straighten your shit out.

You can't rebuild a standing structure. It must be demolished first, or all your improvements to it are superficial.

Today, two weeks of agony over a simple Christmas present wouldn't pass muster. It would be unacceptable. In fact, the boy I dated wouldn't pass muster, either. If I were still dating him, he'd be getting a left hook for Christmas. That's the kind of solid decision-making one can expect from oneself after having a few breakdowns. I highly recommend them.

But then, there are those times when my new self--which bears a rosey freshness and innocence I've never before experienced--is mashed face first into the "selfs" that inhabit the "real" world, and I'm forced to realize that my rosey freshness is a bit much for other people to bear. It's a bit too rosey. A little too fresh.

Before I tell you what happened at the gym two weeks ago, I should explain the extent to which I don't care...that I am rosey and fresh. This unposed, undoctored picture is of the usual state of my nightstand, in my bedroom, the door to which I keep open no matter who pops by for a visit. I don't care.

I think it says a lot about my awesome ability to properly organize priorities. Here we have a ten-dollar Ikea nightstand, a video Ipod full of punk and lesbo-folk, a Hustler magazine featuring Kayden Kross' glorious dairy cannons, a half-used jumbo bottle of Astroglide (only the finest of lubes for the rabbit hole), a Finding Nemo lamp, and a ten-speed vibrator. I think this picture shows that--while I probably need to get laid more--I am awesome. I am proud of my nightstand.

On to the gym. I'm currently creative directing an MMA clothing company started by this pro boxer and MMA fighter who teaches the striking class at my gym. It's called "Ring & Cage," web site coming soon, and you should buy one of everything. I went to the gym on a Tuesday morning to meet with my client, the boxer. He was busy in a private session, so I set up my computer in the foyer. I took it out of my bag, set it on the communal coffee table, opened it up and hit the start button. I didn't stick around. I scurried off to the ladies' locker room to poop. Ten am is just "that time."

While I was busy with the poop, the DVD full of porn I had left in my computer after the previous night's masturbatorial ceremony autoran and began playing the trailers to about thirty different movies--or I should say, the loud-as-fuck climaxes to thirty different porn movies at a volume that was not particularly obscene, but was definitely audible over the Korn that was playing on the gym's stereo system.

Imagine my sheepish walk back to my laptop. I was certainly rosey, but I did not feel fresh. Not at all. I was met with looks that I think you could call judgemental, or maybe aghast. Aghast is probably the better word. I guess that's part of the problem with being so advanced and carefree. You're still adrift in a sea of repressed people. You guys need to have a breakdown. It's the only way this relationship is going to work.

Posted by The Bunny at 5:48 PM