I don’t like the coffee here. Nor the atmosphere. But it is somewhere. I am inside. Outside, sitting at a table, is a grey-haired man writing notes into a notebook. His hand is shaking. It looks like the opening line is “9.19.22 I AM DEPRESSED.’ A couple of paragraphs follow, many of the words scrubbed out, scribbled over.
I would like to know why he shakes so much but it’s not my place to intervene. He can afford what is probably a $6 cup of ice coffee and nice looking eyeglasses. Or can he? And what if he can? With what series of baseless assumptions did I just shatteringly tarnish my moral profile?
People walk past. I got a smile from getting a social media touch from a woman I knew years ago. She still thinks about me.
I skeptically followed instructions from an article claiming you can determine the last 15 people who visited your Facebook profile page. I didn’t think it would be credible but it was. Visits from many women I’ve known one way or other, who I know were interested.
But on FB it seems my real exes all either blocked me or I blocked them. So they don’t show up in this strange roster of people checking in on me, because they cannot.
There are a lot of people on that list I’ve never heard of.
The dude outside keeps writing, albeit very slowly, and with determination. On his lap, under the book into which he writes, is a copy of the New York Times. I feel this barrier between us makes me invisible to him, even as we are both plainly distinguishable, should he simply turn around.
I made an interesting video montage last night, just for the sake of learning Premiere Pro a little bit better. I mostly waste money on that Adobe Cloud subscription. I signed up for it late in 2021, thinking I would pursue work that required ownership of the full CC suite. Then this job came through. This job has nothing to do with Adobe CC. The only Adobe product I’ve seen is the PDF stuff.
But I wanted to create crazy videos. With this job I just don’t have time to focus.
But yesterday I compiled some videos of me masturbating in the shower and overlayed them onto video of a woman sucking on a dildo. It was good to see, in a decadent, nihilist way. She does not know me at all, though she might recognize my porn screenname. I’ve stayed away from getting to know those women. My respect for women like her is more like fear. Fear of some day sticking my dick in crazy again.
The video looked neat, though, like a realization of a dream I might have had in which the beautiful woman is front and center, surrounded by me masturbating to her, with her.
Ah, memories again of CU-SeeMe, when pixelated images of dudes’ cocks ruled the insufficient bandwidth. The time I found a reflector with 9 active windows (it was hard to find reflectors with any activity) only to walk away, come back to the desk and find those 9 windows filled with dudes stroking their cocks.
Yugh… Even with no one else present in the room and no reason to worry about my reputation I felt embarrassed. Would there be evidence of my exposure to this? Microscopic vestiges of the visual in some stratæ of my retina? Will people look into my eyes and see a wall of CU-SeeMe cocks waving?
The dude outside put his notebook down and is reading his copy of the Times, specifically the article on the 6 legal battles Trump is facing. I don’t care but somehow cannot look away.
Gotta go.
