I've had an entertaining morning doing e-mail discussions. If I was able to manage my end of the exchanges with the kind of competence I've grown to expect from myself, I think I was able to back up faster than they could come forward. I might have written some edgy stuff that came a little to close to insult to be suffered lightly, but always with a backdoor in order to run helter skelter toward visibly dissembling as an end game strategy.
If I hadn't tested the waters and gone one step over the line in questioning my own sanity, I wouldn't know how far I can go with dissembling (certainly further than the average bear, and even some who have never tripped the light fantastic) rapidly, if need be, and even as a diversion if I'm stuck in the check-out line. I got no couth.
I'm becoming more aware of how taking a vasectomy has changed everything about me, especially my menagerie of half-baked personas created for my unconscious procreative goals. My pretenses to authority on many levels become paper tigers that self-immolated before my very eyes. My care-acting had no legs to stand on it's own as a viable, believable being. My male power was compromised with the snip of a pair of surgical scissors.
I sort of thought my manhood had been compromised by a football accident when I was fourteen years old. I got kneed in the groin and was lucky to come outta that with a minimal sperm count, but it appeared as though my testosterone production was still in the average rage according to the oncologist. Every aspect of my life was affected by that ill-fated misfortune too. So, I thought, what more harm can a vasectomy do to my ego than what was done twenty-odd years before, right?
Wrong. I was waaaay wrong. The football accident didn't leave me infertile. That was the final straw that broke my resolve to at least attempt to appear conventionally masculine. I took the vasectomy ten years after having my remembering vision. The vision was the calling, and my response to it dictated how I shaped my "wounded healer" persona as a vocation. The vasectomy matriculated the initiation of the football accident to the third order of magnitude, and I crossed the ring-pass-me-not of eunuch-dom(e) at warp speed.
I don't know how to describe how flat-lined my emotional sensitivity is or what I might compare it to for some ratings game, but I know that it can make my objectivity a written-in-stone diabolic instrument of torture. It's not like being deliberately anything as much as second-nature. My capacity for emotional investment has gone bankrupt. What requires caution for me, and hopefully invisible to the world-at-large, is that I appear to be left only with my skills for pretending in order to initiate a ruse of care-acting that the barn door was carelessly left open.
It's easy for me to understand how eunuch' might be used to guard harems. It would extremely difficult to manipulate this johnny-come-lately persona I designed to respond to stimuli with dispassion, in order to avoid behaving in a manner that might discredit my imaginary handlers.
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
