Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

I’ve borrowed a grow box, an indoor growing system, and this summer I’m going to try and grow a bodacious pot plant. The seeds are from Andy who lives in the garage apartment behind our house. He smuggled over some plump bundles of genetic joy from Amsterdam in his skivvies that I can plant. It’s going to be quite an educational project, I borrowed a marijuana botany book and it’s looking like this will be far more complex than I originally envisioned. Maybe those advanced Biology courses I took will finally be put to practical use. And people say college isn’t good for anything.

The shoots that I started growing on a wet paper towel in my windowsill have already been transplanted to their new home in my closet. Only the strongest of the virgin life will survive since the grow system can really only support one large plant. I am like a woman. I create life, but I am godlike in that I decide who dies and who survives. Ha ha (evil laugh dripping with icy power)

I also fulfilled a minor childhood dream of freedom from parental censorship recently and got a subscription to Playboy, which pisses Jenifer off to no end. Sure they are all plasticine (porters and marmalade skies), airbrushed women but I am a man and I have to look. Besides it isn’t fair to unleash the constant sexual torrent of sexual energy that’s inside me onto Jenifer’s beautiful body, even if the alternative might plant a feeling of inadequacy in her mind. It’s better to feel a little wrath than having to deal with her unwanted sexual accommodations or rejections. Rejection makes everyone feel bad. I’ve tried telling her I like to read the articles but that excuse is too cliché by now to really be believable. The irony is that I really do read the articles, certainly more than I drool over the obnoxiously large knockers, but it’s a futile argument rooted in something deeper. I would rather look at and have Jen any day of the week but it’s just a woman’s nature to be insecure (how sexist!) thanks to Barbie dolls and their fathers kicking them off their lap when they start growing boobs. How can I say, “It’s hard to appreciate what you have if you don’t open your eyes to anything else” without sounding like an arrogant misogynist asshole?

It works both ways though; she’s welcome to look at men in banana hammocks if it turns her on. The difference is that when she’s turned on, I’m always ready and waiting. I can’t really help that I’m horny about 10 times to her every 1. I honestly believe that’s really just a man thing, a leftover liability of our caveman mutant cross-chromosomes constantly telling us to “breed, dominate, breed!” We grow pubes and something in our brains automatically starts appreciating smooth curves, fast cars and the art of violence.

I spent most of puberty wondering what the hell was going on. Why was I humping my pillow in the middle of the night and getting a stiffy every time Allison Wetzl went up to the chalkboard? Who do you talk to about that kind of stuff? The Church led me to believe God was going to punish me every time I whacked off, so I wasted years dealing with issues about masturbatory morality and coming to terms with feeling bad about spanking the monkey because I was doing it anyway. This guilt went on and on until I finally just realized one day that it really is ok and even normal to rough up the suspect every once in a while. It’s my minds own rational form of “God made dirt, so dirt can’t hurt” logic.

Even though I’m more comfortable flogging the Bishop now, when I think about sex for the 100th or so time every Sunday, I look up to God and try to be thankful or ask for strength instead. I’m not sure if it was the damn Catholics or damn Protestants that gave me these screwball conflicting sexual issues, probably both. What’s even more perverted is that the God association is partly why Catholic schoolgirl uniforms turn me on so much; they’re the embodied image of sexy untouchable purity in a woman. The crazy thought of countless educated beautiful girls desiring to give over their innocent bodies to me isn’t a perverted little girl fetish, just a repressed religious uniform thing. Excuse me now, I have to go bop the bologna.

It seems I have a little extra money saved from leftover financial aid for tuition and my padded work income, so I bought some bad-ass Technic 1200 turntables with a case, microphone and nice mixer for $800 bucks from one of Jim’s good friends who’s desperate for cash. Actually it’s Timothy, the same guy who broke eggs all over our house that one time. I also got all of Timothy’s records, which included a ton of these crazy imported techno albums with break-beats on colored vinyl. Right now my favorite is the techno version of Sesame Street; I imagine thousands of tripping kids bouncing to the familiar rhythms of their youth. It’s so FUCKING cool but I still have to hook the turntables up through my shitty 70’s stereo, with the vintage working 8-track player, so I can’t really make the system thump and the house shake like I want it to. Before I sprung for the 1200’s I was reduced to scratching on an old record player that I modified without the drive-belt and jury-rigged into my stereo, so any legit equipment would have been an improvement on what I had. It’s like upgrading from a horse and carriage to a Porsche, now I have the best there is.

To put the enormity of me dropping so much cash in perspective, the turntables I just bought cost more than my first and only car. I can’t really justify the expense to anybody else because my music dreams are only envisioned in my secret prayers to God. I would hate to announce something I really care about and then fail to accomplish anything. I would rather do something and then feel good that I knew I could do it all along. Plus it seems the older I get, the more I learn what I can’t do. You can’t just have a generic dream anymore, you have to have a plan or a product line designed around it. It’s like some byproduct of the 80’s I guess.

My latest revelation for the week is that NWA’s “Straight Outta Compton” is now on my top ten all time album list. I found an NWA single in my records, so I felt I had to mention that. I want to record some of my own music so badly. I want to cut and splice together a collage of sounds and ideas and have the freedom to play with the tracks until it’s a soundscape, an entity unto itself. I’ve got most of the music written I just need more practice and some capital, hopefully buying these turntables is a step towards that goal. I’ve always loved the thrill of being in a band, controlling the emotions of a crowd from the stage is a magical experience and it gives me a rush of adrenaline like a high-stakes gambler. But with a band comes drama. I’ve learned from personal experience that band members don’t show up to practice, or they can’t play because they are hung over, or they listened to Judas Priest on the way over and are into a different sound than what I envision for a track. Someone is going to make a mint if they can design a cheap computerized home editing system where people can just be their own band. Why not, I do digital editing with my video projects in school and if we can already electronically load and edit video how hard could it be to translate that to editing sound on a computer?

She likes to make me work when we make love. She likes to grip the back of my arms underneath me and look into my eyes while sweat drips off the top of my nose, my blond wet bangs hanging down, our faces hovering inches from each other, stealing kisses between hot quick breaths. When the orgasmic bomb finally explodes into her brain and body, her clenching fingers become painful, her blue eyes roll closed, she bites her lower lip and tidal waves of pleasurable contractions pass through her hot body gripping my penis with a pulsing sensation. As the fireworks slow their rocketing, her muscles relax underneath and around me. Inside her it gets so slippery and smooth, I come closer, finally resting my body on top of hers, moist skin on moist skin, crushing the breath from her lungs until I reach around her with my arms and roll her relaxed body on top of mine. I watch as she enjoys the slight increase in penetration, letting her get comfortable, moving her hips ever so slightly as she finds the best spots to push onto, eyes still closed. The follow up orgasms are less intense but more frequent and to watch her is such a turn on. When she comes hard enough with me I actually can feel a part of her pleasure. Instead of working towards my own grand finale I’ve learned to appreciate fucking for long periods of time.