Do Not Manipulate A Delirious Sausage

* A literary passage *

There were days for us all where the lust of addicts made perfect sense. Where a man could indulge without a shred of restraint and love every succulent second, knowing full well that morality and conscience had been thrown to the roadside.

Those were the days when a man could walk outside with the ambition to screw any female that gives him the time of day. Where the man followed the same pattern each night out, like a rat that perfectly memorized its way through a maze. Just to release the angst of youth drop by drop. To explore the depths. To explode. To unknowingly fuck everything up.

Those were the days when consequences were only sentences in a pamphlet, or words in an elder’s finger-shaking warning. Consequences that did not deter the man from his present course. Consequences that could not overwhelm the lust. Consequences that never had a chance to scare straight, until they were painfully apparent and real.

And real the consequences became after he manipulated a delirious sausage against all better judgment he may have had.

The days of spontaneous sweat and smiles have now slowed to reality’s pace. Scratching his head in disillusionment to find soon enough, he’s holding a child in his arms, responsible to keep that life maintained. This did not stop him from running through the maze again.

How many times did he have to be stung, until he stopped putting his hand into the hornet’s nest? How many metaphors for misplaced priorities have to be made, for pieces of meat just drifting through life and only taking pleasure in the highs?

How many days are left of the delirium? Of the consequences? Of the screaming child who will not get their just upbringing?