The Secrets Of Not Doing Shit

My therapist stares at me.

I love the company of addicts. They’re the most interesting people I meet. I can smell an addict the second they walk into a room. I look at him sheepishly. And me? He looks back. No, I think you’ve got addictive qualities. You’re impulsive and compulsive. But you’re not a career addict. I can’t smell you. Having said that, he goes on, casting a wary eye on me as he so often does, you need to be mindful.

*

Each morning I wake up and put a little notch on the side of my fridge. It’s the no-fap revolution, I explain to my old man. His eyebrows raise a couple of mms and he reigns them in, creasing into laughter.

Another one of your experiments.

I continue, unfazed. It’s the ultimate in restraint. Zen-mastery over my libido. My record is 44 days, right now I’m on three, but I’m feeling good, this could be a long streak, it’s about laser-like control over your mind. I look over and my father is tiptoeing out of the room.

The experiment in question is one I wrestle with most days. The longer I go without nutting the happier I am. I don’t enjoy the aftermath at all, all it does is highlight every way my life is going badly. I enjoy the curtain coming down I suppose, but there is no applause. Just someone in the corner trying to start a slow-clap…