This is from that shitty book I wrote:
Sex has destroyed me. The creative force that generates life and motivates so much of what we do has ruined my life and deflated my will. I’m miserable because of sex. I can’t enjoy life because I pine for the part of it I can’t have. Chasing sex creates pain rather than relieving it. I ache more each year. My body decays, but my lust remains. I want the lust to die, but it won’t. It burns on as I shrink farther from the world around me.
I hate knowing that sex is at the base of everything. Civilization exists because sex happened. It continues to exist so sex can continue to happen. How many people do what they do just because doing so increases their chances of getting laid? How many songs have been written and bridges have been built just to increase someone’s sexual currency? I can’t look at anything without thinking about how sex made it.
Sex is part of many people’s lives, just as much as eating or sleeping are. I seethe knowing people get to enjoy it as part of their routine. I can’t relate to lives like that. For how ubiquitous sex is, it remains out of my grasp. I’ve spent my life reaching for it in abject frustration. Nothing else has been important. Everything has been about sex. Consequently, I’ve missed everything. I hate myself for it, but I hate sex more.