The day I got pubes and straight

I just figured out how to feel normal on Monday morning. Sleep 10 hours straight on Saturday night. Wake up on Sunday morning and shred rhythm guitar and vocals with your brother. Eat lunch, sleep another 7 hours. Wake up, eat dinner and watch youtube videos with said brother. Update blog, lift weights, shower and sleep. Get up at regular time on Monday morning, drive at leisurely pace to work. Breathe deeply. Once work commences, don't give in to bullshit. If you need a week to do something, tell them you'll take a week. Don't give in to people trying to push you into a corner. If deadlines are crazy, have them extended. You're only human. Admitting it, is the first step.

Now that my organ has been played, let us embark on our customary wind breaking excursion. While it is common knowledge that at the turn of the 20th century, Schedule I drugs and their derivatives like heroin, were available over the counter (OTC) at your local general store, what isn't common knowledge is that even today the consumption and reverence of mild and wild psychoactives is widespread in the Indian subcontinent. From Kandhar to Kathmandu and Kashmir to Kanyakumari, the Indian propensity for mind alteration and the respect for the altered states of consciousness it brings is well known. I take the example of the great Indian mythological God Mahakala. He is the last line of defence, an impenetrable phalanx of darkness, if you will. In Star Wars speak, he is the dark side brought to do good. Permit me to quote from http://www.shivashakti.com/mahakala.htm

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Mahakala has four arms and three eyes, and is of the brilliance of 10,000,000 black fires of dissolution, dwells in the midst of eight cremation grounds, is adorned with eight skulls, seated on five corpses, holding a trident, a damaru, a sword and a kharpa in his hands. 

With a beautiful body adorned with ashes from the cremation ground, on various corpses he dallies with Kalika, fondling her and making love with her and fiercely kissing her, surrounded by numbers of loudly shrieking vultures and jackals, adorned with a heap of braided hair, in a deserted place.
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These visions are reminiscent of DMT trips expounded in various books, the names of which I shall not utter here. But let us dwell on the image it conjures up. This God is purportedly the protector of Shiva, the protector of Tibetan dharamashalas, and it is said that he controls time. That ultimately all time shall be swallowed up into his emptiness and he in turn shall be devoured by Mahakali, the ultimate. In my opinion he is second in power only to Shiva, the czar of the gods.

Mahakala, the most fearsome, indomitable in 3 worlds:



Mind you, he comes in different flavours. This one above is my favourite.

On the subject of phantasmagoria, when i was a turd baby goblin i used to read a lot of Enid Blyton shit - the famous 5, secret 7, assorted elves, pixies, fairies and brownies peckerslappery (that was crass and i apologize) that helped me weave images of what were to become the ghosts, doppelgangers and talking animals of my dream world. Those stories led me to actually believe that my toys would come alive at night and fuck with my stuff cuz they were lonely. Of course it was fucking magical to me back then cuz i didn't know any better. Don't get me wrong, i am grateful. But one day i suddenly felt like punching the teeth out of Blyton's pants for writing what she did. There was this one particular series called "The naughtiest bitch in school", a story about a spoilt hag-child who tried fucking around with everyone's mind what came in contact with her. I'm not ashamed to say that i love that fucking book and the whole series. Looking back i realize it was just my mom's way of telling me it was ok if i turned out gay. But for a smear of testosterone, i certainly may have. However that's exactly where the tables were over-turned and sawed in half by the shark-tooth machete of male pubescence.

(Update: The damn thing really exists. Thanks Pu-239 for finding it)

Shark tooth machete

I was 13 at the time. One morning i noticed that my mickey mouse voice was deepening into a gravelly Barry White-ness. i further noticed that i could now see over the refrigerator without trying. My shoulders were broadening and my crotch hurt, but good hurt cuz my undies were too smallofasudden. I felt like i was turning into the Hulk and a bit of a lycan too cuz of all the hair. At this point i was between 2 volumes of that amazing series, the naughtiest girl returns or has chums or something. I stomped over to my seat and continued reading. I felt ashamed. Everytime i saw the word "shan't" used in isolation, i felt like beating something. Extreme confusion pervaded my mind. Why the urge to throw this giant-fonted book away and instead look at my dad's copy of sports illustrated? Should i just let go? I mean, what would you do if you were young and hormonal, and had an open invitation to peruse the pages of nubility? You'd open them up and read them in the loo and that's exactly what i did.

When mother and father got home i was at the dining table reading father's copy of Dahl with the Sports Illy on my lap. Mother took one look at me and understood that the hour had passed. Saying nothing, she walked on. Father patted me on the back as only a father could and asked me which Sports Illustrated bikini babe was the best. i answered 'the one with the big rear'. He was taken aback. they *all* had the big rear. 

my gonads had arrived.

That evening i touched my first copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I also began punching loose flooring tiles with my fists in small groups of fellow-hormonally deranged individuals. we would shatter them.

A schweinehund was born.