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Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Cure
Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Cure
After sitting here looking at the virgin canvas of the message entry window wherein the instructions indicate I am to enter the content of my blog's first post I have become mentally paralyzed, no chaos churning, no order burning, no images swirling, only the incoherent dispersal of featureless illumination seen through a fogged window or advanced ocular disability caused by cataracts.
Most would believe what their mind tells them - that something is interfering with coherent passing of light from exterior to interior space they occupy and proceed to condensation removal operations on their wall mounted natural light source. Logical, but not likely to produce any improvement in vision if cataracts of the eyes not condensation of pane is the culprit.
Since identification of a problem's root cause is paramount to selecting and application of procedures which actually correct the underlying condition causing the perceived malfunction; it is inadvisable to yield to temptation and present opposing argument.
Remembering the original description wherein the inability to see any images which have internal, not external source is key to accurate diagnosis and treatment. Since the light path from outside the patients habitat all the way through the eye and optic nerves, the cause must be internal as well.
Seemingly at a rational paradox wherein it appears we must conclude there can be no problem because no cause can be identified; and, rationally if there is no cause then no problem can exist.
Despite the above rational conclusion, both a problem and root do in fact exist. A reality denied by Victorian thinking and attitudes towards human physiology; specifically sexuality, our internally driven desire and denial of sexual release. The result is commonly referred to as pelvic congestion; when levels raise high enough nothing works as it should; high function mental processing, sight, being the first to degrade.
Obviously what I need is to screw myself silly; in other words what I need is the same thing I used to do to my wife; until she suddenly lost any interest in sex... (what's wrong with this picture?)
She used to love it when I'd ride her hard, ride her long, ride her to a standstill and leave her laying there overheated, exhausted, limp as wet rags laying in a pool of her own sweat.
She'd been rode hard and put away wet; and neither of us had any problems with pelvic congestion.
Damn, where is that woman? The one who, after finding herself to exhausted to move without help, used to purr and tell me to help turn me over and onto my knees and just fuck me like the bitch I really am.
What happened? Where is she? What ever became of that girl who always answered my query:
Hey, Shrew; Wanna screw?
By disrobing while she asked, "how do you want me?"
"On this." I'd reply, turn her facing away from me and push her over at the waist, take her hips in my hands while hers found my shaft and guided it straight into her, "Impaled on this." She'd help work me in with her fingers.
Once we'd achieved full penetration she'd tell me, "You got me." She knew to reach for the ground to have her hands help support her.
Driven with animal fury pound myself into her. No reprieve, no quarter, no mercy. all for me. But for years it was OK. She said so because every now and then, whenever she asked, I'd ride her to a screaming stand still; until she asked, "Turn me over..."