Happiness lands in your lap from doing happy things. This statement is so opposite of brain surgery or that rocket science a few chosen humans may blast beautifully as if trying on bikinis being a supermodel. Right?! Wrong! I know, I know ~ words are stylishly simple sometimes. Yet, do they really hold up to their weight? Actually, such an optimistic declaration could not be closer to the truth. Although, asserting their testimony implies a need for cunning piloting. Proverbial positivity rugs are jerked from under us as frequently as sugar creates cavities that fatten dental bank accounting books. Hence, I’m here to offer you some safe alternatives. I’ve extracted these essentials about which I neatly can’t, won’t, and don’t dare to renig. I believe if you closely follow deliverance from evil you will maintain impertubation. Or as the gurus call it: peace. Or as the AAsters call it: serenity. Or as any of us, satisfaction-saturation atoners call it: sanity.
I aim to buy my enthusiasm in bulk. My mind operates a bit like Costco. Stocking up super-size-style around goodness offers us long-term benefits. The more kindness we input the greater the justice for our soul’s righteous budding. You might delight to consider it similar to sex. Then again, possibly this is simply another excuse for me bringing up a favorite subject to explain my susceptibility toward libidinous action. Stellar sexual activity should set you up solidly for a day or that far-beyond-floatiness betterment of a full week, month, or even a year if you’ve not gotten nooky in ages. (Ahem, I like preaching to advocate for others, nevertheless, certain stuff slides familiarity ‘home’ akin to couture condoms entry.) Quite conversely, poor hanky-panky penetration antics are liable to speed you dreadfully backward at an equivalent numerical rate. Yikes! No one desires that dire compensatory damage. I’m a climax meets comedy kind of gal. Therefore, I’ve reinforced prototyped standards.
Users’ choice applies outrageously well, herein. Upon waking and before evening zzz’s ought to include a minimum of one orgasm in each instance. I figure we’d end a lot of war if every human masturbated routinely. Add a robust scoop from your respectable reset index. Translation ~ I’m referring to an eloquent array of whatever the heck kills the vile cock-blocking stenches of your universe that ever has you down in the trenches. Of course, please have no hesitation borrowing from mine: sniffing nature’s sexy armpits, getting lost in the luxury of drool-heavy healthy to x-rated eats, or daydreaming why you’re the next best millionaire the etheric plane should reward since your laundry list of allocation registers widely outside your realm. Most of what I’m telling you falls within a categorically daily compassionate contract. As in, if one unequivocally institutes specified contents regularly, I nearly guarantee a language of pleasure will be predominately oozing from one’s pores infinitely.
I don’t expect anyone to have to agree with me… ever. Ok, I’m white-lying. For about thirty-five, or maybe forty-something, years I banged up a tough bunch of banter with God during the only times I screamed through praying over WTF a bulk of people I cared for road in on their high horses of uselessness pertaining to their acceptances of my genuine identity? It’s as if they preferred me drunk, carnally swapping fluids on fraternity pool tables when I’d nary remember (#blackout). However, everyone else got to gawk while pleading a serious mental trade of the semi-soul-selling level swearing on the longevity of their private parts with the same God that any unborn future children of theirs never ever nada end up this way. (Sidebar, speaking of my BFF God another second, I’ll repeat my thanks to the alignment of stars for not having infiltrated at that ripe age for me the invention of what many youth in our current era are beholden by as the fast recording on smart devices with cameras capturing anyone’s adolescently flirtatious foibles.)
Corruption comes as quickly as crime in an underfunded neighborhood and lingers without leaving accordingly. Hell, to share my smutty honesty, it’s a stranded pregnant hooker waving furiously at me with her wild eyes flashing an oath of copulation to the first hot driver that stops. I’ve spent a sour-spilled-overload of my frigging sunsets strapped into the thoughts of a pecking (dis)order regarding whether I would contain Mr. Wrong’s energy through modern-day online blocking deletion, LAPD support, or moving to another country to start anew. But, beware of the cosmic reminders you might invite to visit you a bit brutally if you’re askew. Your shit stalks you. Herein, I’ve become the queen of authentic self-review. I’m both the atheist and the almighty for my own self. Symbolically, we’re all just Offspring of this crazy cycle called life. (Animatedly shared in case anyone else thirsts after an epic Aussie authenticity slice-of-life, risqué seduction show that’s recently touched my heart, my vagina, my mental-gymnastics-validation-mudras-to-the-hilt, plus fulfills a patience-inspiring reality fix too.) You’ve gotta be open to fighting your version of wicked with massive liters of wisdom’s ingenuity.
If you learn one iota from this story, let it be that your ounces of control over douchey moves you can instead pad with grooviness for you.