A Different Drum

When I came back from the sleazy bar to which I went automatically every Friday by 4:05 in the afternoon, I found her in the threshold of my crisis. Everything seemed contradictory for me. If my predisposition of fucking the world indicated that I should simply fuck her, why did I hesitate? The conscience has never played an important roll in my impulsive decisions. My body, in its balance and natural harmony gives me signals... certain impulses.

What the majority of people would consider impulsive actions, not pre-thought actions, I consider them instinctive actions. And it's fair to give credit to your instinct. I don't want to minimize the brain's importance, the logic thinking. But there are more things. The problem is that the man insists on synthesizing: the less, the better. If I understand something, I stay there. The so called, comfort zones.

Anyway, in the end I didn't fuck her. I didn't follow my instinct, and I did follow some... guidelines... moral? I've always complained about the moral. I think it's bullshit for the minds and modern perceptions, having to feel ourselves tied to commandments of past societies. Societies that have a little or nothing to do with me. But my intellectual posture doesn't matter to her. She attacked me. Hard.

I asked her – with that vague idea I have of being a gentleman – to leave. I had no interest in fucking her. There was something very nasty in the idea of having sex with a .. dead woman... don't-- don't judge me. It's not something literal, what I mean is that it would've felt dead, empty. I don't know. I think neither my body, not my mind have to do with it, or anything of metaphysics in my decision and change. It's a third person.

Her name is Cathy.

She took me out of my comfort zone.