Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 37

I've stopped chain-watching YouTube tarot card readings as I was earlier this year in a desperate search for clues to my destiny in a world gone wacko. But I have consumed so many videos that repeated reader phrases ring in my ears, particularly "what's meant for you will not miss you." Reassuring, right? As I push past the dynamite blast I placed in the center of my recently known life, I battle regular impulses to control something. Anything.

What are the limits of going with the flow? If the flow is heading towards a tall waterfall, do I just float on my back and trust that what happens between the top and bottom is in my best interest? Do I grab a tree branch before the precipice? Do I front crawl against the raging river, hoping for a do-over?

I've been selling a bunch of shit online and stranger purchasers, upon learning I'm returning to the land of my youth, are like "good for you." I've gotten support from all kinds of folks but the most consistent and compelling has come from strangers. People buying shit online like a big move. At least on someone else.

I'm sort of excited to be something like a suburban boarder, assigned a room and having just my clothes and essentials, the remainder of my terrestrial baggage stored a couple hours away in a town that apparently thinks less of itself if storage unit pricing is a good measure of a town's self esteem. Will my experience of this town support its bulging ego? Will I take it down a notch with a blistering blog on the ridiculousness of a Midwestern suburb feeling important at all, or will I court the local tourism syndicate for a writing gig, selling the world on the place's price-affirming charms?

Will Daisy be a love magnet in the Midwest as she is here? Will new housemates revel in her gargantuan exuberance or kick us out when she puts her snout in someone's cocktail or insists on an aggressive slow dance with the willowy teen living upstairs? Might Daisy eat something previously deemed inedible which was important to my hosts? Will she poop in the hot tub? Will I poop in the hot tub after my first Italian Beef in 18 years? Do I have to wear clothes in the basement? Just how quiet do I need to be when entertaining, say, Drummer Boy, or myself for that matter? I've lived as a lone frat guy for over a year now. Surely I'll need to clean it up a bit. How good a casserole do I have to make to blind my benefactors to the erratic nature of my hustle muscle? What if they dislike my impromptu song-stylings or unforeseen binge straightening of items which do not belong to me? What if they tire of the Daisy monologues? (She needs my pointed verbosity to exercise her ears.) What if so many people ask me what I'm gonna do for work or more permanent lodging that I start responding with feigned deafness at best and a potent dry gulch at worst? What are YOU gonna do for work when the apocalypse comes? My personal apocalypse came early, lIke a teen first touching panties with someone else in them. You get it now. Nobody's thinking about work post-apocalypse. 

Might I attract a sugar daddy? MUST he be OLD? Do they make young ones who'll buy me a Champagne of the Month club membership and a faux snow leopard fur? (I had to return my cougar coat due to an online sizing oversight. I was going to wear it as a nudity cloak in my new home.) What do you call a younger man who keeps a cougar? A mountain lion tamer? Would he carry a whip? Might I be expected to cum when called? Will he call at all?

Tune in next time for possible answers to these stirring questions or if you just want to see if I land on a comfortable mattress.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness