"Will you… eat me?"
I purred politely.
The reply didn’t just bounce;
it pulled a feral, hysterical gymnastics routine off
the dusty walls, hyperventilating between a panic attack
and an invitation, ricocheting off the ceiling fans
before landing, warm and slightly breathless,
somewhere in the vicinity of "yes."
Like all sweaty, late-night post-modern philosophy, the whole proposition was beautifully brain-damaged. The question collapsed under its own horniness— way too much primal hunger shoved into a microscopic G-string of words.
Ah, the agonizing kink of embodied didacticisms! The utter double-jointed absurdity of existence! And yet… why, I wondered, sprawled across the sticky ruins of our debate, is existentialism so hard to swallow?
More pressingly: where, philosophically speaking, should our reproductive fluids go?
Camus ghosted this question entirely. Nietzsche strongly implied but declined to commit. Derrida wrote fourteen hundred pages on the subject and somehow made it less clear than before he started.
And so here I am: drowning in rising, rude waves of lust, still wading through the floppy, half-baked edging of many dead white guys who produced little more than books.
Am I just a sad buffet of flaccid reasoning, undercooked climaxes, and lukewarm theorems that leave persons intellectually blue-balled?
Let's skip all trepidation; the point is filthy-simple: existentialism isn't that damn hard to swallow once we flick the logic clean, suck on the axioms, and roll raw theorems across the tongue like contraband ecstasy.
Yes! Hell yes! Drop the payload, buddy. The mind is feral & the body is screaming. This metaphor has been standing by the bed in latex for over twenty minutes. Unzipppp!