Hedonist Mode

Mood: Hedonist, Wondering if my cat is pregnant
[Toot!] Index: 3.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

One of them days I picked up the cigarette and went to smoke it under the stars. And I was thinking about some girl, and seeing some profane nightclub pointing a blasphemous beam at God's window (past midnight!). And I realised that I wouldn't like to be in club at that time (or ever). I realised the stark differences between me and them. Me, a fine night is being at home next to a girl and listening to gentle North African music and we're shaking our cigarette ash into an empty bottle, and I'm sipping at iced tea, and every tick of the clock brings me closer to a Kiss, and (this one is important) I don't know (or, at that moment, care) what the future holds. So, I barked at the fun in the valley: I prefer it this way!

But do I? How can I say I prefer warm, sedate seclusion to the wild, sweaty reveling noise, when I've never tried it? Hence my decision, at that point, to start living a hedonist life, if only for a while. With pleasure as the only goal of living, you know. I've always had some tight little rules to follow, and it seems to me that rules only exist to limit how much pleasure I get to have, so I was implicitly sending them out, as well, and replacing them with a packed schedule of sex, drugs, sex, partying, sex, "trying that stuff", sex, et cetera, and, of course (lest I forget to mention it), sex. The only working in there would be to fund the Schedule.

But the best result of such serious choices is the discourse that starts in my head, between Ange and Jude. It's how I know there are three of us: three viewpoints that cannot even meet. (Mine is ignorant questioning, Jude is for hedonism, Ange against it.)
Ange goes off, Have you ever seen anyone say `I've had enough of pleasure, let me now have some displeasure. Even submissive masochists do it for pleasure. Hedonism tries to fill a bottom-less bucket. You're the programmer; you should know that this Bottom is not good.
Jude starts one under, after Ange has collected extra points for that occupational pun, but he flies in with all guns screaming: If pleasure were not for having, you'd not have the urge to have pleasure. I mean, okay, stop breathing if that bottom-less bucket is not worth filling.

So, there. As always, Jude wins. It went on a little more, but it swerved off-topic in a hurry, leaking into our unfinished debate on whether polygamy is the normal relational state (for both men and women), et cetera.
So, I'm going to get into hedonist mode, tentatively. I know there are some things that constitute pleasure for other people, but not for me. I should define my own idea of pleasure, and then follow through. The worrying part is that my version of pleasure is way too close to what I already do. Maybe I'm just brain-washed by me. So my hedonist mode may not be too different from my current mode, which would defeat the purpose of the experiment. But I should remember something Ange said:
These people see anything that requires considerable restraint not to do, and they just declare it `anti-freedom'. They can't concede to having no self-restraint; they only say they want to live free. And if you think self-restraint is a bad thing, we are not friends anymore.

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In other news, I was at a party, last Friday. I was, for most of the time, seated in the back of one of the many obscenely-expensive wagons there. My boss' ride, I mean. I was back there with a girl, and my boss walks in on us. Well, he didn't see anything, as nothing was happening at the time. But he had to look away and back off, expecting the worst. It's not everyday your boss runs away from you, in fear. :o)
Also, I met two bloggers. In both cases, they remembered me before I remembered them, which can be a bit ... bad. Queen B, who I figured out before she told me, walked up to me at the close of the party, and I was shocked there was a blogger there. I had seen her shake that thing to some catchy Nigerian song, Goloco. You may have, by now, heard it; one of the few times Nigerian media doesn't suck that much.
Next came Dennis' brother, Ernest. It's almost scary how these brothers, plus Alfred Dickson, resemble. After he told me he knew me, that he was Dennis' bro, I had to fight the urge to call him `Dennis'. Likeness tends to leap out when you find out family ties. All three, for example, have that bushy chin and insistent eyes. Nice day, that one.