Don't Be That Guy

I saw a woman who looked like Ryan Gosling

But that’s neither here nor there, as they say.

What the fuck does that mean anyway? How can something be neither here nor there?

In Buddhism they call that a bardo state and, to put it bluntly, everything in samsaric existence is some kind of bardo state:

The bardo of birth. The bardo of life. The bardo of death. The bardo of becoming. The bardo of coming. The bardo of cumming.

That’s where I am right now. I’m at that singular point of rejaculation where bliss fills your nadis and time slows down so much that one is able to write an entire article in the time it takes for the seminal fluid to fly out of the holy exit and soak your Def Leppard T-shirt.

So listen up, since we don’t have much time.

Don’t be that guy.

The one who leers at women, consumed by their beauty and one’s own hormones; who doth not consider that one looks like a medieval rape consultant; nor how wide one’s eyes doth stretch during the aforesaid leering.

Imagine going to the jungle and being glared at by the rare and ancient prehistoric gorilla pig mutius porca, who is skulking by a thick tree carrying a one-third full bottle of water-based lubricant and a pair of non-fluffy police-grade handcuffs.

That’s you, when you leer. No, you’re not the twenty-year-old, milkshake-skinned, crude-oil-haired love machine you thought you were when you were thirty.

So don’t be that guy.

The old creep who masturbates over hairy Russian women in public toilets, and takes it out with his eyeballs on the youthful ones who just want to drink Bacardi Breezers and eat MDMA for breakfast and go to their jobs in the marketing department at Bunnings.

You think you look like Al Pacino in The Godfather. Black hair, black eyes, the look that says I’m going to fucking tie you up with your own knickers and beat you with my antelope leather belt.

But you look like Javier Bardem on meth. Black hair, black eyes, the look that says I’m going to put a bolt through your head and then tie your corpse up with my rusty Y-fronts and eat you for elevenses. No Cunt for Old Men.

You need some discipline. Have a quick glance. Offer the universal flower to the awakened ones and look away. Be like your grandpappy Joe who got his dick blown off at the Battle of Poon Tang.

Close the book of Russian peeporn. Ditch your fourteen imaginary Grok wives. Turn your focus back on what’s happening within your own house and your own channels.

Because the way things are right now, you ain’t gonna be born as a Bodhisattva on Manjushri’s mountain eating gold for breakfast and defecating rainbows. More likely a scuffed-up canine with a lipstick dick, living in some rich family’s house, fucking the legs of every damn guest who turns up to lunch, or staring and panting heavily as you watch your mistress turn the CUCUM 5000 on herself when the kids have gone off to school — unable to do anything but lick your lipstick like it’s a Calippo, cos you lack the opposable thumbs to perform any kind of grab and schlab technique.

And all because you couldn’t stop your damn gorilla pig leering.

So don’t be that guy, for fuck’s sake.

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Thus completes secret diary entry number #268. Send to diary app…

What… Wait… This isn’t the diary app. It’s Substack. Fuck.

My life is over.