Let me preface this post by saying that I think Freud is a twat. I think that most of his findings are scientifically unfounded, but that’s just a layman’s opinion. Freudian psychology is enjoyable to think about, if you can somehow find a way to get past the idea that humanity is composed of a global cabal of sex-crazed maniacs. But, given my previous relationships, this might be true.
I talk to myself. I discuss everything from love and religion to the bounteous pleasures of weed. I whisper to myself in the shower, so that no one thinks I’d be crass enough to shower with someone else. In normal circumstances (i.e, when my roommate has left for days on end, leaving me to believe that he’s lying in a bathtub full of ice with a missing kidney) I talk so frequently that my neighbors must think that I’m the 16 personalities of Sybil Dorsett.
A recent development in this path to schizophrenia is that I’ve started saying Freudian slips. I’ll be in shower, whispering sweet nothings to myself, and I say something like, “It would never work out with Kaelee.” Then I’ll stop and tilt my head to the side, and agree with myself. At least I’m getting all of my slips out in private.
I’ve started dating again. I’ve been taking it glacially slow (except the one liaison with too many shots of whiskey), which has made me realize that I’m more untoward than I thought. This lead me to more introspection. I use significant others to validate myself, but I try not to emotionally abuse them. If that makes me a bad person, don’t fret. I’m working on it.
On dates, my mind tends to be a kaleidoscope of nonsense and non-sequitors. It doesn’t help that one of my current obsessions is Freudian psychology. They’ll say something to get me smitten, I’ll blush (I’m so chaste), and suddenly, “Is she your new target of libidinal cathexis?” Then it gets weird. I start thinking about how, according to the kook, I must be seeking sexual gratification with this girl because, when I was an infant, I was desperately horny for my mother, but I couldn’t bang her because my father would chop my dick off. Its when my face is struck by the last image that the date looks at me funny.
No, instead of Freud, think of Raymond Dart, and his “bloodthirsty australopithecines.” It makes for cheery conversation.
Go ahead, ask a question. I only whip out my scathing sarcasm if your an idiot.