F-word abuse: on giving a fuck, getting a fuck, and fucked-up progeny

It’s neat how there are a million little coincidences in life…a slice of (pi)zza at Wild Oats comes out to $3.14 after tax, the price of a phone card at the Radio Shack by my house matches the last 4 digits of my phone number, my morning ‘routine’ (the shaving and showering and so on) always takes 37 minutes, the most random number (if humans are involved). When I see one, like the eerie meshing of a specific line in a song on the radio just as I’m driving past a particular place, it kind of catches my attention for a minute, even though I know there’s no actual meaning behind it. Not a man in the sky amusing [hH]imself or leaving us subtle hints at how to direct our lives, nor a by-product of a universe consisting of many clever redundancies making it compressible enough to reduce to an infintesimally small space (or left over from expansion therefrom). Just stuff that happens.

Last weekend, some reproduction-related themes kept coming up (between a long talk with an old flame, a surprisingly well-thought-out Genghis Khan Genetic Fitness Test meme, and a discussion at J.R.’s place encompassing meaningless sex, thoughts on passing on genetic material and so on [did I actually use the phrase “mutual nonproliferation agreement” in reference to my pocket rocket? Beh, fucking nerd]) among other things, and as usual, it kind of got me thinking.

The genetic fitness meme, despite what its name might imply, measures a number of telling factors regarding one’s odds of passing on one’s genetic material to future generations. These factors include such things as how many children your immediate family members (parents and grandparents) had, but also things like religious affiliation, your opinion on condoms / birth control, how often (and in what crowd/surroundings) you get drunk or use drugs, whether you remember it the morning after, and how good a liar you are. The test gets its name from a study essentially reporting that if measured strictly by the number of descendants, Genghis Khan is the world’s greatest lover.

I never really gave it too much thought before, but statistically, the persons likely to pass on the most copies of their genes (e.g. through drunken 1-night stands, aggressive jock tendencies, rape, sleeping around, screwing for welfare reasons, or as a career path…) are those who most shouldn’t pass on their traits in a civilized society. Conversely, scientists and mathematicians usually don’t get a lot of play.

For my part, my thought is that for a variety of reasons, I don’t have any intention of passing on my DNA. Nevermind that I’m not exactly a paragon of normalcy myself, and don’t want my offspring going through the same stuff as I did, but the girl I ultimately fall in love with (and more importantly, vice versa) is likely to be pretty…unique, and that probably includes genetics. Let’s face it, most Normal People kind of annoy and/or bore the hell out of me. My kids, if I were to have them, are likely to be pretty fucked-up.

Regarding the meaningless casual sex thing…I’m kind of not a fan of it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sex quite a bit, in terms of the whole physical sensations part…but actually giving a damn about the person I’m with is a large part of it, too. I was talking about my upcoming Chicago trip that weekend and mentioned that an ex was wanting to meet up with me for a night of fun, and that I wasn’t sure if I actually wanted to. General consensus seemed to be “Why not? Go get ’em tiger”. I’m definitely tempted, and haven’t ruled anything out yet…wow, that girl had a motor. Maybe too much of one…she’d want it so many times in a single night that I could hardly keep up (in fact, I think the Duracell corporation barely managed). But after we went from having deep feelings for one another to being casual fuck-buddies, it just wasn’t the same…I’d almost go further and say that it didn’t really offer that much compelling advantage over anything I could do unassisted. That didn’t really last too long, maybe for that reason, besides distance and scheduling conflicts, then I moved out to the east coast, and that was kind of the end of that. Except for about this same time last year, we agreed to meet up one night. She came over, and we pretty much didn’t talk to one another. There really wasn’t much to say. She grabbed my arm and said “Okay,”, and I thought for sure the next words were going to be about how awkward it felt, or that I was creeping her out, but it ended up being “we’re going upstairs”. She led me by the hand to my old room, shagged my brains out, and went home. I guess I thought it would be more like old times, sort of. In reality, it was more kind of like jerking off, except using a pussy instead of my hand. I can jerk off at home, and not have to worry about pleasing anyone but myself*.

Meh…another latenight caffeine-induced ramble brought to you by Senseo, Coca-Cola, Sky Rocket Syrup, and DM’s espresso machine (lured in by the aroma of dark roast in exchange for a handful of lines of PHP/SQL). I should go to bed, but I’m not entirely sure what I’d do there until tomorrow morning.

* If you want good sex, date a geek who doesn’t get it very often. He will work hard to make sure his girl enjoys it, because if she does, she just might let him have sex with her again. If she doesn’t though, that’s probably the last nookie he’s going to get in a long time, and don’t think he doesn’t know it.


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