Scared of Fucking

I’ve got you on the run, philosopher. You’re scared of something. What are you frightened of – getting too sticky?


You like this disgusting: that’s what you’re afraid of. You like me in all my disgustingness. And you like me in your disgustingness.


Philosophers are afraid of sex. I’ve worked that out. Male philosophers anyway. It’s – just – sex.


Help! I’m scared of fucking. I only like books that I can’t read and can’t understand. Help! I’m frightened of living and love and sex and romance and affairs. And I’d like to be alone for the rest of my life just writing about how much I hate things.


This is my impression of you. I hate being biological. I hate being dependent. I hate being alive. I can’t cope with any of it. So I’ve invented some stupid philosophy called Gnosticism. Which isn’t even Gnosticism. It’s just a way of being fucked up. Just psychological disturbance.

And that’s what you teach and that’s what you write about and that’s the poison you’re spreading.

It’s not poison. It’s counterpoison. Tell yourself that, philosopher.


Biology, I hate biology. I hate what it makes me want. I hate my instincts. I’m disgusted by my instincts.

You’re disgusted by me? That’s a complement from you.

I’m disgusted by what I want from you.

You hate being human.

I hate being animal.

You hate being dependent.  You hate love.

This isn’t love.

It’s erotic.


You’d rather not need any of this. You’d rather be a man of culture forever. Up here, in your own, working and wanking. Doing your last days of high culture thing. Pretending that it hasn’t all just ended. That it isn’t actually over.


You want sex, just like anyone else. You’ve got a boner, just like anyone. You’re base – in your own eyes. Like you’re ashamed of it all. You want to be a true spirit, but you’re not. You’re impure, philosopher. You’re perverted.


All this stuff you want to be and you’re not. Only you’re trying to make something out of this ‘not’. The nothing of your talent. The not there of your oeuvre. The no one’s home of your original ideas. Of your intellectual virtues. Of your critical intelligence. But you can’t make anything out of your great nothing burger.


Trying to conjure up some negative philosophy out of the fact that you’re a fuck up.


What issues do you have? You were brought up by both parents, right? Stable Indian home. You weren’t destitute. You were good immigrants. Your parents worked. They got on. So what was it? were you abused?

No.

Did someone fuck you when you were young?

No.

So your attitude is just philosophical? Don’t believe it. There must be a reason why you’re so susceptible to all this everything / nothing stuff.