Fences green the neighbor’s grass

I don’t know whether there are more pictures of cats or porn on the Internet today, but take them together and the pussy shot is the most unstoppable force in the global flood. Myself, I don’t get the draw of porn. Some artistic representation creates a surrogate or even replacement world; porn creates a void through constant reminder of the missing reality. I find it about as satisfying as pictures of food. And not much prettier. They say that beauty is only skin-deep, and when you’re staring down a girl’s orifices, that’s a problem.

On the other hand, a person will labor months or years to bring forth a book, a set of dead words on paper, but to conceive a living person, and violate the metaphysical law imposed on God himself, that a creator is unable to create something equal or greater than himself, can be done in a moment, without thought or skill, between plugs on the soured nipple of a tequila bottle. So maybe all the manufactured echoes and depictions, as well as the laws, limitations and restrictions surrounding sex are necessary to give it a magnitude and scope in the field of human invention commensurate with its worth, a cathedral built to hold that tiny reliquary, those few sorry minutes at the heart of it all. For instance, I’m pretty sure my Puerto Rican friend in the department here was conceived during one of the brief treaties between rum and the Catholic Church. Not his creation itself but the obstacles in its way, as well as the means of sliding past them, are the true works of art and finesse.

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