Tales of love and lust

I’m alive.

It’s ok, you can call off the search party.
There wasn’t one?
…what do you mean you didn’t even notic-
Fuck it. Mulligan.

I’m alive!

Sorry to have lavished you all with abnormal quantities of my word mush there for a few days only to just run off and not talk to you for (according to the site stats) 11 days like some shonky one night stand who then gets the itch for more. (While you get the itch for topical cream).

Honestly thought I have been thinking about you. A lot.
I’ve been thinking that you all deserve something for having your eyes subjected to the drivel that I dribble. So for the last week and a bit I’ve been writing a piece to put up on the site.
Mostly because I haven’t bestowed any work on you all lately and I feel its time, but also because I started writing something to get the juices flowing and I really enjoyed what I made but there’s no place for it in any current story arcs that I have on the go.

The story is inbound, it’s not here right now. Right now I’m here to talk to you about lust and love.

In my line of work (selling shit to idiots) I get to see a lot of new technology come and go. And majority of it is out of my price range plus the transient and ever evolving nature of this shit is so frequent that I have a hard time justifying a financial outlay on something when I know a better one is around the corner.
So in my line of work, we don’t fall in love with items. We fall in lust with them.

Not in the literal sense. I don’t sell sex toys.
I don’t think I do. Depends on your own sadomasochistic tendencies are vis-à-vis a stick blender but I’m not here to judge.

It’s terribly un-Buddhist of me to relate sexual desire to an item; which makes a lot of sense seeing as I’m not Buddhist. But my next sentence will sound so super conceited that it’ll border on self-love and make you forget about my Buddha bashing.

I may not be able to let myself love the things I hock, but I have recently found love. In my own self-created characters. That’s right, love for people that I’ve made up in my own head and pooped out of my pen onto paper.
I thought, when writing a story involving them, that it would be like work. I would have a sense of lust towards some of these characters. A fleeting desire to be like them or to know them or to live in their world only briefly. To watch from afar as I make them dance and play and suffer for my amusement.
Then, I got attached. I caught feelings for my made up characters.

I’m not here to offer advice on writing characters, I can’t tell you how to grow a connection between you and the person you’re writing about. All I’m here to say is that, after such a long period of time where I felt daily lust for one thing after the other, it’s weird to sit down and lay out the events and activities that will shape the eventual outcome of the lives of someone that I actually have an emotional connection with.

Shit’s weird.

Anyway. In the next few days, after a little bit of editing, I plan to introduce you to at least one of these people. A man named William.

The only disappointing thing I can say is that, in this particular story, William is showing a side that doesn’t normally exist. He breaks character dramatically to the point that I was actually surprised at what he was doing and I almost didn’t want to share the story because of this. Because I know that first impressions last and in later stories his character may not make a ton of sense, may not conform to the mould that’s been laid in everyone’s head because of this intro.

But then I thought ‘Fuck it, they’re just characters, I can change them any way I like.’

Then I tied the strings to the marionette and made it dance for my entertainment.

Soon people.

Christ I hope I haven’t built it up too much, it’s an ok little bite of words but no show stopper.

Also sorry again for the absence. Cause clearly some of you live to read this garbage. At least in my head you do.

– Jacob

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