Binaural beats. Open your third eye. Meditate for twenty minutes a day. Go to the gym 3-5 times per week. Quit jacking off, or at least quit watching porn. Get at least eight hours of sleep per night, preferably nine. Follow the paleo diet. Take cold showers.
Do everything except what matters.
But what does matter?
Right now, what matters is the fact that I’ve got a dick like a diamond. I haven’t ejaculated in 72 hours and I’m so horny I’d fuck a chipmunk if there were one around. Some bookish girl with strawberry blonde hair from school has been sexting me. She’s coming through town next week and wants to get fucked. I’m not opposed to the idea.
I’m not sure life ever gets easy. I finally have a pretty girl who is steadfastly devoted to me, blazingly intelligent, feminine. She’s great mother material. She spends money on me every chance she gets. And yet, I’d rather fuck my hand while I image rubbing the head of my penis against the bookish girl’s butthole. What has the world come to? What happened to everlasting love?
Novelty seeker, that’s what I am, isn’t it? Maybe I just need something new. Maybe everyone does.
I close my eyes and imagine my ideal future:
I slap together a novel over the next couple of weeks. It’s raw, but fuck it. I pay someone five bucks to design a visually pleasing cover and put it on Amazon. Against all odds, the masses come out of the woodwork to buy it in droves. By mid-September, I have enough cash to get a lease on a condo in the Mediterranean for six months.
For half a year, I go to the gym, eat food that isn’t genetically modified, fuck beautiful European girls, get fucked-in-half drunk a couple of times a week, and, when the mood strikes, write. I manage to pump out two more books, and a few online critics hail me as a modern day Bukowski. By that point, the money is pouring in so steadily that I’ll never have to work again.
Next, I visit Southeast Asia for another six months—not because I want to, but because I want to say I did it. I get deeply involved in Buddhism and meditation, but not so deeply involved that I lose my soul. I take up a martial art and get decent at it. I read a lot and try opium once, again just to say I did it. I date a cute Thai girl for three months before a pregnancy scare brings things to a quick end. I read a lot, and write one more book. The reviews are mixed, but some independent filmmaker on the West Coast decides to make a movie out of it anyway.
California is my home for the next six months, and I even make a cameo appearance in the film. It would be a stretch to call me a celebrity, but I get recognized on the street every now and then. I drink a shit ton of fine wine and take up smoking for a few weeks before deciding that it’s a disgusting habit (for real this time). I finally get to fuck the bleach blonde sorority girls that I’ve lusted after for so long. Vanity of vanities.
After the movie is released and my bank account continues to grow, I rent an apartment in Paris. I continue drinking and eating and fall in love with a painter whose best talents are beneath her bra. The sex is mind-blowing. For four-and-a-half months. I buy a one-way ticket to Ireland in order to escape. I don’t bother saying goodbye. The verdant countryside does wonders for my mind. The incessant rain doesn’t.
Finally, I set up shop on one of the cayes off the coast of Belize. I drink Beliken Stouts all day and write when I’m not busy snorkeling or sunbathing. There’s never a shortage of first-rate seafood, all for pennies on the dollar. I get my rocks off by fucking the endless supply of tourist women. I think to myself, “This will do for now.”
Everything except what matters.
But what does matter?