…if you intentionally try to be an inspiring person, I will fucking hate you.
I used to be able to draw for hours. Now I feel exhausted after about forty-five minutes. Ahh, the joys of a progressive muscular disability. It really helps one enjoy certain nice things less over time.
I’m not usually a bitter person, but dammit, I used to love drawing. Bah humbug.
He’s a guy who wasn’t born with his disability, but got it after breaking his back in a stupid swimming pool accident. Sad story. Played a lot of sports before he was crippled. I think he was quite the ladies man too.
He’d gotten fat. And he was headed for the Red Light District. Or he might’ve been; I didn’t talk to him. But he was heading in its direction. My mother did see him once, a few months ago, trying to get into a brothel and being turned away because they wouldn’t help him. I hope he found some other place where they do want to ‘help’ him. I mean, you know you’re really fucking disabled when even paying money won’t get you laid.
Not that I’ve ever tried. Thankfully, I’ve never felt the need to. Don’t think I’d feel very comfortable with it either. And anyway, I’ve lived with my disability my whole life, so I’m used to being found less attractive by most people. And at least I can feel my legs. He became more severely disabled than I am overnight. What a depressing life he must have.
But maybe I’m just doing the very thing that annoys me so much when people do it to me: feeling sorry for him. I shouldn’t do that. Feeling sorry for someone is one of the worst things you can do to them.
So, who wants to see my hairy, disabled naked body with its skinny deformed legs and tiny penis? Oh hold on, nobody does! Too bad though. You’re really missing out.
Actually, I just felt like I needed to make a new post, seeing as this blog has been rather slow ever since I started it. I can’t help it; making and then abandoning blogs is what I usually do.
But still, I did promise nudity. So how to solve this without posting porn or reblogging some exhibitionist’s posts? Porn is kinda boring, and I dislike the idea of reblogging.
Of course, it seems that most tumblelogs almost completely consist of reblogs. I’ve never quite understood this. What’s the use of having a blog if you’re going to fill it with things that weren’t made by or for you? Perhaps it gives people a somewhat shallow insight into your personality, but I can’t say I’ve ever been interested in enormous amounts of seemingly random pictures long enough to be able to discern any kind of consistent personality traits. Some little snippets of self-written text about any kind of subject are usually much better at conveying what kind of person you are. It doesn’t even take very many.
Oh my, look at me complaining about stupid things. And this started out so promisingly. So yes, nudity. Should I post my own? I doubt it. But what then? If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to inform me, will ya?
So I’m pretty badly disabled. That’s something anyone who reads my blog, which I suspect isn’t many people, should know by now. The stupid thing is, I’m also an incredible optimist. I’m probably optimistic to the point of naive self-denial.
One thing I am particularly optimistic about is my romantic prospects. I feel that I should be able to find a girl I like, and I am positive that this girl shouldn’t necessarily be disabled. In fact, I try to keep telling myself that this is a genuine possibility. Of course I know, deep down inside, that it’s not quite that simple for me. Most able-bodied girls are going to think twice before dating a physically unattractive, sexually inept fucker like me. But I still want to believe there’s a chance.
This is why I get pretty annoyed when friends, especially the ones whose opinions I quite value, feel it’s necessary to casually mention how I’ll probably have a very hard time finding a girl that isn’t in a wheelchair like me. They’ll say it like it’s an obvious thing, which it is. But I don’t want it to be obvious. And I especially don’t want to be reminded of how obvious it is by people who aren’t disabled. It disrupts my willful self-denial, puts a dent in my attempts of self-preservation.
Thing is, I know already. I don’t need to be told. I don’t want to be told. Being told by outsiders just confirms things I don’t want to have confirmed. Things I’d rather ignore as much as possible.
Anyway, this probably all sounds a little weepy and self-pitying. I’m probably a little too drunk. My humblest apologies. And if any of you know a hot girl who’s into gimps, hit me up, will ya?
When you get into a taxi, with a driver you don’t know, you implicitly trust them to bring you to your destination safely. With your life intact. That’s quite a big thing to entrust to someone you don’t know. Especially if they drive like fucking madmen.
I got into one of those taxis recently. Now, contrary to what that little ‘Hag’ story below might’ve made you believe, I actually don’t look down on these taxi drivers like some kind of haughty dickhead. They’re nice people, and most of them drive well. I’m usually driven around by the same few people, so I know them and they know me.
But this guy I didn’t know. He seemed a little shifty right from the start. Nervous. Didn’t know how to properly fasten my wheelchair, so I had to explain it to him. And even then he still didn’t do it like he should’ve. But alright, at least I couldn’t fall over.
Then he started driving. Oh Jesus. I’m glad it was late at night and the roads were mostly deserted, because I really wouldn’t have wanted to be surrounded by things to possibly crash into. There were enough of those anyway, like trees and houses, but at least their movements are easy to anticipate. I say this because I’m not completely sure if he was aware of the fact that trees and houses don’t, in fact, move.
Sometimes he’d drive inexplicably slowly; other times he’d suddenly accelerate for no apparent reason and drive way too fast. On the motorway he managed to keep driving right next to another car for about a kilometer before finally falling back or passing it. And he did this thrice. As if he deliberately tried to be as annoying as possible to other people. He left his indicators on for long after changing lanes or turning corners. And he listened to rather loud music on his headphones, so he couldn’t even hear the traffic around him.
At times like these the only thing I keep reminding myself of, lest I shit myself for fear of my impending doom, is that these drivers probably don’t really want to die themselves either. I tell myself that these people have probably driven these taxi vans or other cars for many years, and that they’ve somehow managed to survive. I pray into nothingness that there is some kind of perverted logic to their madness.
But just imagine that all these things I convince myself of during such drives turn out to be false. That, for some unfathomable reason, this driver does want to die. That something happened to him right before picking me up which broke the proverbial camel’s back, made him snap and decide to kill himself. And to take his last passenger with him, just to have some company at the end.
This particular driver didn’t speak terrific Dutch either, so I doubt trying to reason with him would’ve worked very well. And anyway, he was blasting shitty music into his hearholes, so he wouldn’t have heard me anyway. I would’ve been stuck and unable to do anything about it. What a lovely thought.
But luckily he dropped me off at my door safely. Luckily he wasn’t as mad as his driving seemed to suggest. I paid him, forcing a smile. I went upstairs. I breathed out slowly. I slept badly.