Let me rant for a moment. I have mentioned numerous times on this site about my hatred about being touched. I don’t want you to place your, filthy palms on me. I don’t want to succumb to whatever disease you’re carrying around like you don’t have a care in the world. I cringe. You place your finger on me and my body goes limp. Every inch of it. I said before about the stipulations regarding the “touching and being with a woman” thing. Look, that’s fine. I’ll be with a woman. I’ll let her touch me all over and treat my body likes it’s braille. Every inch of me is fair game when baby making is at stake. Then again, I don’t want kids. But we can pretend we’re making babies but please keep your fingers crossed. Who really wants a little me running around?
When I am sober, the touching freaks are out in full force. The USS Enterprise has nothing on me. My shields are ten times greater than that crappy ship they fly around picking up Vulcan’s and blind, PBS has beens actors…but you don’t have to take my word for it. It seems when I get a little bit of alcohol in me, my shields become weak. They tend to not work as fast. A random stranger can walk up to me and place their arm around my shoulder. I won’t coil in fear. I won’t shoo them away with a wave of a stick. People that are aware of the shields gasp. They cover their mouth and point at me. It’s like they are watching a car crash into a group of small children. They can’t look away. They want to see the terror unfold. They want to see some sort of reaction. They want to see a beat down. But with faulty shields and they presence of alcohol filling my stomach, I am free to be violated. I am free to be treated like a kid with a ‘kick me’ note on the back of his shirt. I am fair game. Do what you wish. Ride me. Stroke me. Run your fingers over my bald head. Without the power of my shields, I am open to whatever they can unleash on me. With the knowledge of my weakening shields, I am beginning to think that my shields are in need of a tune up. I am still running on 1.0. Hell, windows 95 is more powerful than my OS. It is time I go in for an upgrade.
Damn you, alcohol. You turn this OCD guy into a billboard offering free sex. Why most alcohol be my Kryptonite to my OCD? I can usually last a few rounds. After the fifth or sixth beer, I forget about the defense system my body has and welcomes, most graciously, the handshakes, the head rubbing, hugs and god forbid, the kisses. From my ordeal last night, I noticed my defense system is in need of a huge overhaul. You people make me sick and if you keep it up, I’ll be really sick. They weren’t down. I was still detesting the groping. But nothing I said stopped them from taking another spin on the ferris wheel. If I were drunk, the story would have been different. But I was sober. I was well aware and knew very well that they were seeing if they could tear down the shields. You know what? They succeeded. The shields are now on back up generators. It’s only a matter of time before they fail completely. I will need to avoid human contact for a few days till I can fix it or at least MacGyver it to work for a while.
I should make note that the alcohol intake can vary depending day to day. I had six last night and the shields were still up. They just weren’t working properly. I noticed the failure in the defensive system but I chose not to act on impulse and run away like the kids in the Soul Asylum song. Me telling you that it takes six beers to bring the shields down is as bad as a Bond villain tell 007 the weakness in his device that could destroy the planet. I don’t have a specific number of beers that will alter the shields. There is no exact science to this. It will never be a set number. If I did know the number, I won’t tell you.
I need to be careful. I really need to get my system up to 2.0. If I am not safe, I will suffer the same fate the PlayStation Network had. I don’t need that. I don’t need some grubby hands with their hands all over my genitals or any general area on my body. My body is a temple. It’s a safe haven. It’s a place that no virus is allowed to crash at.
I will start looking around for an OS upgrade. Maybe Apple can develop one for me. They are pretty crafty at keeping their system free from unwanted viruses. Microsoft on the other hand, will never be aiding me in my search for 2.0. I just cannot deal with the grabbing. My body goes in to sort of diabetic shock.
To the people that take advantage of my impaired state, shame on you. You’re fully aware of the alcohol running rampant in my veins. You giggle, you call your friends over for shits and giggles. I don’t need that. I don’t need the poking at me with a perplexed look on their face with them thinking, “I wonder what he’ll do if I do this…” Two options. My fist in your face or the cruel words that spill off my wicked tongue. You decide. Don’t treat me like I am a side show in a traveling circus.
I want to end with a plea. I am on my knees. I am begging you to stop this foolish game of touching me and let me drink my beer and enjoy the company of Hawaii Five-O and his merry men. If you cannot stop, at least wait till I can fix the shields and get them back into working order. Don’t take the deteriorating shape of my shields and rub me, hoping to get a genie that’ll grant you three wishes. Cause folks, that isn’t a genie that pops out. And if a genie did pop out after your rub down, the only think you’ll wish for is a towel.