Why are tits so much more dazzling than anything else in reality? I mean women’s tits. And how do molecules in our brain make us think human breasts are the epitome of beauty, while convincing us that all other mammalian glands are gross? Why aren’t guys mesmerized by cow udders? Those hormones are some pretty amazing chemicals.
Thursday, a young women leaned over right in front of me to get something out of her backpack and a large vista of hanging breasts bulged in front of my eyes. Evidently my heart is strong, because I didn’t have a heart attack. As an old man of sixty, I am quite grateful for such unexpected revelations of evenly tanned globes of fatty flesh, but I have to wonder why my hormones are still active. What’s the point?
My age, physical appearance and lack of wealth preclude any success with young women, or even women of my own age, and even though my hormones are more than willing, my equipment is unreliable at best, and my little swimmers are old and tired and probably couldn’t make it all the way to the egg anyway. I’m sure my DNA can’t replicate like it once did.
Why won’t my reproductive hormones leave me alone? I’ve been looking down women’s dresses for 60 years, why hasn’t it gotten old?
If my appetite hormones didn’t insist that weighing 235 pounds was so wonderful, maybe the tools of my sexual hormones would work better and I could at least attract sixty-year-old women. But what’s the point? I have no need of children, so why do my hormones keep insisting I reproduce?
Why do our hormones torment us so? They make us moody and angry, or depressed and lethargic, or jumpy and nervous. I suppose there might have been a time in my life when all my hormones worked in harmony, but that was long ago. It’s just so pathetic to be old, bald and fat and having my hormones constantly whispering to my mind that I should go make some babies. Even my sperm are laughing at that.
Why can’t I have reasonable hormones. Why can’t I have sensible old man hormones instead of dirty old man chemistry?
And if I’m not having sex fantasies, I’ll be fantasizing about chocolate chip cookies. Isn’t that bizarre? It’s like being possessed by demons.
Think of all the hormones it would be wonderful to have? I want to be horny to write great novels. Now that would be a useful urge for an old man. It doesn’t require a lot of energy or sarcastic rejecting females.
My body is breaking down and I seriously need to lose some weight. Yet, my inner chemistry insists on staying fat. Where’s the biological logic in that?
Wouldn’t it be great if we were born with little knobs that allowed us to adjust our hormone levels. I got two useless nipples. Imagine if they had been dials for sex and hunger hormone levels. Our whole culture has indoctrinated us to think sex is the most wonderful experience in all of nature. But if we could turn off that urge would we think it so wonderful? If we could turn down the sex dial to zero would we be miserable, or would we think, “Wow, peace of mind is better than a piece of ass.”
And how anorexic would we all be if we could dial down our hunger hormones?
Or if we could dial down the sex, would we all settle for being happy and fat?
JWH – 9/8/12
Auxiliary Memory 