Comfortable

Comfortable: (adj) clothes or furnishing providing physical ease and relaxation.

I didn’t become a writer because I favor timeclocks. Deadlines were always dead to me.

I avoid them.

It happened to me this morning. I got up in the middle of the night and enjoyed a creative time of scrawling and bawling. I often do that.

The sheer beauty of God’s Universe and the joy I have in emoting about it sometimes turns me into a silly little girl who just found out that the boy she likes
didn’t check the right box on the note she sent asking if he liked her.

So when I awoke again, at what would be considered a normal “getting up time,” I was not comfortable with such an explosion of energy.

Guilt slipped in.

I thought to myself, I’ve got to get busy–write my blogs and post my articles, prepare my podcast. Hardboil my eggs.

My God, without all of these responsibilities, who am I? I become just some sort of guy walking around, breathing air, enjoying life as it happens, appearing to be without reasonable constraints.

I rolled over.

Sure…my blogs are getting posted later today. I assume this will merely create intrigue rather than disapproval. And if there are people out there waiting for them, they shall have the pleasure of perusing them in the afternoon.

It is important on our journey to be comfortable. You can tell when you’re around someone who is festering a gut-full of tension, because all you have to do is suggest the idea of pursuing comfort in your adult life, and they will quickly explain why this is impossible, irrational and a sign of having a “Peter Pan Syndrome.”

Peter Pan wanted to stay young.

I don’t need to be young. I can get old…

Just as long as you let me be comfortable.

 

Donate Button

Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

Good News and Better News

 

Coitus

Coitus: (n) physical union of male and female genitalia

I think I was about nineteen years old when I realized it was much more permissible to talk dirty when you used scientific words.

You could then open up the conversation to pleasantly naughty subjects by making sure you didn’t use gruff language or street lingo. No one is going to consider you appropriate or intelligent if you say “screw” if “coitus” is available.

One of the powers of this process is that there’s always someone in the room who is not familiar with the term, so you can explain it in detail, and therefore make yourself look quite virile.

In other words, “What is coitus?”

Answer: “A very good question. I guess some people would use terminology like ‘screwing, humping,’ or even the ‘f word,’ but ‘coitus’ is the term scientists have pushed forward to represent that natural interaction of two human beings when they’re involved in the process of love-making.”

Honest to God, at this point everyone is leaning forward, having lost interest in the s’mores they just made over the fire.

When you isolate off human sexuality, it really is as basic, simple, carnal and primeval, whether done by human beings or tigers. Matter of fact, when we’re in the heat of passion we often envision ourselves being some sort of animal groveling for greater domination and pleasure.

Once I heard a man say that the difference between humans having sex and creatures of the Serengeti is that Homo Sapiens normally require a good meal, a stiff drink and lovey-dovey Motown tunes to make the whole process seem plausible.

(Of course, Papa Lion probably does bring home an antelope before they get down to business.)

We are such a fussy species. We want to believe that our genitalia, which often smells like dead bats in a cave, is somehow holy and sacred in the sight of God and must be given great consequence.

And then, all of a sudden–maybe two drinks in?–she touches his penis and he fumbles to find her clitoris, and they’re off to the races.

Yes.

Like two horses in a pasture.

Giggle we must at our foolishness, and certainly should continue to insist that we are having “coitus” instead of “bumping uglies.”

 

Donate Button

Subscribe to Jonathan’s New Podcast

 

Cleavage

Cleavage: (n) the hollow between a woman’s breasts

Jimmy was my friend. This was back in the day when the name “Jimmy” did not elicit laughter.

He was one year older than me. I was eleven. (You can do the math.)

Jimmy had a mom. I had a mom, too, but she was a mother. Jimmy’s mom was young and had the largest breasts I had ever seen. I was only
eleven, so I hadn’t thought that much about breasts. Most of the ones I had spied belonged to my aging relatives, and they were similar to the appearance and texture of an avocado.

Not Jimmy’s mom.

Even though we lived in a time when the “prude laws of behavior” were held supreme, Jimmy’s mom walked around the yard in a bikini, watering the plants. There was a tree not more than twenty paces from where she did her work, and I situated myself so I could stare at her as she gracefully bent over with her hose.

The bikini was so small that I could almost see all the way down to her nipples. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever beheld (and I had a Viewmaster with pictures of the Grand Canyon).

She was so …

I don’t know. I guess the word is “sexy,” even though I didn’t know there was such a thing as sex.

All I knew was that every time I stared at her ample cleavage, I got warm, I tingled and the lower parts of my body ached. It was like there was something they thought they should be doing, and they were being deprived of it, but since I was so ignorant, all I could do was quietly writhe between pain and pleasure.

One day I thought she saw me, so in the most clumsy way possible I ran across the street, back into my garage, finding it difficult to do so because, for some reason, my pee-pee hole had grown, making it cumbersome to speed away.

I’ve never shared this before and perhaps will never share it again.

But it was definitely my sexual awakening–and even though I did not know what the hell was going on, I was very grateful to Jimmy’s mom for owning a bikini and being brave enough to wear it.

Cleavage is a reminder to men that women are the only humans on Earth that are truly beautiful when unclothed.

 

Donate Button

Chocolate

Chocolate: (n) a food preparation made from roasted and ground cacao seeds, typically sweetened.

Obesity is a bitch, because it bitches at you because you’re obese.

It forces you to think about food more than you need to, which can eventually cause you to rebel about being confined.

After all, I’ve never seen a prisoner who’s grateful for being locked up because it made him eat more vegetables.

Likewise, even though being fat does require some disciplinary action, removing the finer parts of life–for instance, chocolate– is what the constitution may have meant by “cruel and unusual punishment.”

So sometimes the prisoner locked within the fatty walls must break out and be free.

Matter of fact, it happened to me last night.

I wanted some chocolate.

Realizing that a Milky Way candy bar is in the hundreds of calories, and even a pack of M & M’s has way too much sugar, I did discover a tiny piece of delight called the Candy Kiss, which ended up being just 22 calories and 2.6 grams of sugar.

Now obviously, one Candy Kiss is not enough, especially if you’ve been locked up in solitary for a long period of time, devoid of the pleasure. But sometimes you can convince yourself to hold it to three.

Three Candy Kisses, bitten in half, creating six bites of chocolate, is a mind-boggling, soul-altering spiritual revival, with a good shout of “Hallelujah” followed by a creamy “A-men.”

Sometimes nothing will replace chocolate.

I certainly enjoy my asparagus, but I cannot truthfully say that it is related, coordinated, conjoined or entwined with the marvelous miracle of chocolate.

 

 

Donate Button

Chastity

Chastity: (n) the act of abstaining from sex

Sex is problematic because it feels good.

If there were no sensation other than the satisfaction that the male seed was traveling into the woman’s uterus to create children, it is
doubtful that the world could be populated.

So the Creator, in His wisdom, made the encounter the best few minutes of your life.

Although there are men who tout that they can go on for hours, the true goal is the last seven seconds.

That’s the memorable part. The rest is exercises to prepare for the game.

There are those who insist they enjoy the exercises, similar to muscle men who go on and on, discussing the value and delicious taste of a kale health shake–but basically, it’s that last seven seconds. And those seven seconds can control your life and make you do really stupid things if you’re not able to put it in perspective.

Standing in the way of common sense and clear thinking is the concept of chastity.

Although the individuals who preach this doctrine tout the value of purity and the glory of being free of guilt and sexually transmitted diseases, it does leave one hollow, without feeling love–vacant of a certain measure of satisfaction that was intended for our species.

Even the Creator said it’s “not good for a man to be alone.” Because in that loneliness is a sense of incompletion, because of not being loved and feeling the physical benefits of the experience.

  • What is the right amount of sex?
  • What is the wrong amount of sex?
  • When is sex evil?
  • When is sex good?
  • Is it only good if you’re married? (May I be truthful and say that married people, to judge by their facial expressions, are the worst advertisement possible for marriage.)
  • Is sex only good if it’s naughty?
  • Is sex only exciting when it’s with strange flesh?

These are great topics for discussion, that should be debated in a house of worship instead of a locker room.

But since religious people are afraid of sex and locker rooms don’t have that intimidation, many of the misconceptions, misrepresentations and even dark applications for this glorious piece of pleasure will continue to be whispered by those who are truly ignorant.

 

Donate ButtonThank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix 

Character

Character: (n) mental and moral qualities distinctive to an individual

There are four stop-offs in life.

Each one is available; each one is real. The type of character we derive is determined by whether we allow ourselves to linger or progress.

First, we’re born.

It comes with a whole package of possibilities, and also genetic guidelines. There are those who go no further. They take what they receive
from their DNA, listen to all training provided, and go through a brief period of rebellion, only to end up greatly resembling those who procreated them.

There’s a second opportunity. It’s called being born again.

Although the term has been limited to a Christian religious experience, it is available to all souls who are weary of the confinement of their childhood.

Some people stop at being born again. They end up with their homespun philosophy and a few extra ideas they add onto their train of thought.

But character does not form from being born or born again. Character begins to take shape when we’re born through pain.

Pain is that status that surrounds us whenever pleasure decides to go away. It reminds us of our weaknesses, it taunts us with our failures, and it takes all of our chromosomal lacking and brings it to the forefront. It is here that we decide to be something instead of letting the circumstances determine what we’re going to be.

Noble souls reach this point and begin to forge a personal definition all their own. They become valuable to the human tribe because they are contributors instead of detractors.

But the final stage is to be born universal.

This is when all name tags, cultures, prejudices and limitations of gender are set aside in favor of the simplicity of enjoying the next person we meet.

This station in life is not only color-blind, but also turns a blind eye to any vision that insists on hurting others or painting a dark picture of the life we’ve been given.

Four stations.

Where will we stop off?

Donate ButtonThank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix 

Cavort

Cavort: (v) to jump or dance around excitedly.

There was a time in my life when I did not feel as if I was having fun unless I had completely lost control.

I remember being twelve years old and arriving at church camp, running into the cabin, knocking over all my friends and wrestling on the
floor as the counselor looked on in horror at the tangling, giggling mass of melee.

That’s back when I had more energy than brains.

I had more naughty ideas than I did conscience.

And I felt if every part of my body was not moving toward pleasure, I was cheating myself out of the joys of being young.

I cavorted–I really did.

And I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten the sheer random joy of the endeavor. Even in discovering my sexuality, doing it in the back seat of a Mustang made it much more dangerous and therefore, appealing. (Nowadays, I couldn’t even get into the back seat of a Mustang.)

We become better adults when we remember the joys of cavorting, recalling those times when saving our energy was not necessary… because it seemed limitless.

 

 

Donate Button