Seriously, you guys...seriously

Work Ethic: Well, it's November. You officially said "Fuck October". Are you happy with yourself?

Self-Loathing: I'm going to go out on a limb and say that generally, no, he's not. I know since I'm him.

Realism: We're ALL him, jackass.

Inner Child: Bad word!

Me: I...I have no excuse.

Self-Loathing: That's a new one.

Me: Shut up.

Civility: There's no need to be rude.

Me: Where the hell did you come from? I thought you died in the Blue Riots of '08.

Civility: No, that was one of the Love Of People twins.

Me: Oh.

Depression: Me want dopamine!

Me: Yeah, well, we all want a lot of things. Self-Esteem wants a future. Irrelevance wants a pony. And Libido? I think he's gone insane.

Libido: I am become Sexual Frustration, destroyer of egos.

Me: What?

Comic Nerd: It's pretty bad. He's like the Dark Phoenix from X-Men except horny.

Realism: He's not joking, man. You know that I always try to counteract the hyperbole that comes spewing from the vast majority of your brain cells, but in this case, it's pretty accurate. Look at what Wikipedia says about it...

Me: I'm not listening to Wikipedia!

Realism: Just listen! "It is claimed by some that a person who is sexually frustrated sends off "signals" in their personality, consciously or subconsciously, arising from their frustration.These cues can include frequent moodiness, over-eating, agitation, stress, lack of sleep, being easily sexually aroused, trouble paying attention to things, low self-esteem including the feeling of being unwanted, unloved and/or being physically or personally repulsive; and similar phenomena. The feelings of repulsive, unwanted, unloved and rejected can lead to manifestation or intensification of other unhealthy personality traits, such as severe depression arising from the despair felt, or even body dysmorphia."

Inner Child: WE CAN BE A TRANSFORMER?! I WANNA BE OPTIMUS PRIME!

Me:...dysmorphia. Not Transfomers. And what's your point?

Realism: Well...it kind of applies. You're always moody, basically acting like you have a bleeding vag. You're more agitated than a hornet's nest caught in a washing machine. You stress out constantly. A stiff breeze can...well, you know. You have no focus at all. Self-Esteem is basically dead at this point. And Depression? You look at that big, hulking retard over there and tell me he doesn't exist.

Depression: Me not retard! Me just need extra time to understand!

Me: What's your point?

Realism: My point is, believe it or not...maybe you should listen to Libido for a little while.

Me:...are you out of your fucking mind?

Self-Loathing: No, but you are!

Self-Esteem: Can't...breathe...

Libido: I'm being paid attention to? What is this?

Me: That shit came from Wikipedia. You can't possibly consider that information accurate. Come on. An article about Henry VIII could just become fifteen hundreds uses of the term "lol butts". There's no factual validation there.

Realism: There's no reason to attack my veracity just because you won't come to terms with your own sexual inadequacies.

Ego: SEXUAL INADEQUACIES?!

Me: Here we go...

Ego: Bitch, you don't KNOW 'bout no sexual inadequacy. Are you kidding? Boba Fett down there could blow a lamp off a nightstand from five hundred meters.

Me: I...

Ego: The Awesome could impregnate ladies who he's never even MET just by them thinking about him.

Me: Just...

Ego: Maximus could...

Me: Okay, that's enough. I appreciate your...enthusiasm, Ego, but surging full-bore into lying isn't helpful.

Realism: Look, the fact is that you ARE frustrated. It's just how it is. You've only kissed one person since 2008 and you were drunken than a pack of German war vets. You haven't had anything below the waist handled since 2007. You have officially crossed the line between "caught in a dry spell" and "wandering aimlessly in the Sahara". If it could rust over, it would have.

Me: I got it, thanks.

Realism: I'm just saying...

Me: I know. I got it.

Libido: But I don't got it, that's your problem.

Me: Here's part two...

Libido: You seem to not care about me at all. Sure, there's all that fancy porn out there, but that's hit the point where it's boring. It's rote. It's mechanical and not in the fun way.

Me: *sigh*

Self-Preservation: I'm inclined to agree.

Me: What the hell stake do YOU have in it?

Self-Preservation: You mean aside from the very real concern that you won't propagate your bloodline, thus killing me?

Me: Well...yes.

Self-Preservation: Well, that would be the fact that instead of taking steps towards correcting your troubling lack of wet dick, you drink yourself into numbness.

Budding Alcoholism: Can't numb nothing!

Me:...that darkness aside...

Self-Preservation: Seriously. Boozing instead of lovin' hurts both your dick AND your liver. It's a double-whammy of self-abuse.

Me: Peachy.

Self-Loathing: So are you going to do anything about it?

Me: I say...no. Fuck my libido. Let my crotch go down in flames. I'll take a dead sack over reviving that stupid bastard over there.

Zombie Romanticism: Blaaaaaaargh so clooooooooose blaaaaaargh!

It's a good question

Self-Respect: So...are you proud of what you're doing?

Me: What?

Self-Respect: You know. What you're writing.

Me: Y...yes?

Writer: Don't listen to him. I'm proud of you.

Me: Well thanks but I don't...

Ego: Yeah, it's actually good writing.

Anxiety: Don't you think it's kind of...creepy?

Pervert: I don't see how!

Me: You aren't helping.

Self-Loathing: Admit it. You have the smallest bit of shame because you're writing smut and are GOOD at it.

Me: I don't write...

Self-Loathing: Oh yes you do. Come off it.

Work Ethic: Well, porn or not, you need to get back working on it. You have, what, ten in the queue now?

Writer: Ten?!

Pervert: Ten!

Self-Loathing: ...and you don't see that as a problem?

Me: Should I?

Self-Loathing: Yes!

Me: Why?

Self-Loathing: I...ugh.

My Views On My Facial Hair Are Conflicted

Fashion Sense: Okay, I'm serious now. You need to shave the facial hair or at least trim it up, for God's sake.

Me: I kinda like it. It makes me look rugged.

Fashion Sense: No. It doesn't. "Rugged" generally means "Hey, I've been too busy cutting down trees to bother with shaving". You are not rugged. You are more "Hey, I've been too busy drinking and playing with myself to realize that I look like a Muppet." Not rugged.

Me: Oh, it's not that bad.

Fashion Sense: Yes. It is. You have officially graduated from "adorably scruffy, kind of like a secluded author" to "potential sexual predator, hide your kids".

Me: Don't be hyperbolic.

Fashion Sense: I'm NOT. That's the thing! You look as if you might mug a soccer mom and drag her into a dark alley one night as she walks home from Kroger because it was such a nice night.

Me: Right.

Fashion Sense: You look as if you have the capability of both planning and executing the sodomization of a toddler.

Me: Oh that's nice.

Fashion Sense: You look like a mountain man fucked a bear with mange!

Me: Alright, that's enough.

Ego: THAT is the one that pushed you over the edge? THAT one was too far? Really?

Budding Alcoholism: Phwaw! What the hell is that? It's like Newcastle mixed with heavy syrup.

Me: Dude, you have to let that beer chill for a while.

Budding Alcoholism: But I want it now.

Me: I know. Patience.

Patience: No!

Me: Ugh. I don't want to talk anymore. Stupid body betraying me.

Ego: But...

Me: No. I'm done. Where's that beer?

Because Mental Arguments Are Just Oh So Fun To Transcribe

Self-Preservation: Okay. Can we...just for propriety's sake, can we just run through what you just did again?

Me: Fine.

Self-Preservation: You, and correct me if I'm wrong, just went and retrieved the bottle of vodka from your mini-fridge and a can of cheap-ass orange soda.

Me: Oh what? Like I was going to pour the vodka in the dark in the other room!

Self-Preservation: That's...not the point.

Libido: So at this point, you've basically said to hell with it all, I want my dick to explode, is that it?

Me: Not in so many words, no.

OCD: MMMMM CLEAN UNDERWEAR!

Me: I'm...wait...

Confusion: Aren't you usually screaming in hyperbolic terror?

OCD: I AM MORE THAN JUST A ONE-TRICK PONY, CONFUSION!

Inner Child: Pony!

Me: No.

Inner Child: Pony?

Me: NO.

Inner Child: No pony?

Me: No damn pony.

Pervert: That's probably for the best.

Me: Shut up, you.

Work Ethic: Good work today. You actually did something productive instead of just sitting around and playing with yourself.

Libido: Don't I know it. Hrmph.

Anxiety: Is there something wrong? Are we losing our sex drive?!

Me: God, I hope so.

Libido: Hey!

Work Ethic: To answer your question, Anxiety, no we aren't. We just found something more important and intellectually stimulating to do. Like an article that we are going to get paid for.

Writer: And it was easy too. Seven hundred words is nothing, especially when you have four solid pages of notes to use!

Self-Loathing: Ooh, seven hundred words! Aren't we special?

Ego: Fuck off, dude.

Me: There we go, Ego! Show some balls.

Self-Loathing: Don't encourage him. You remember how swollen he gets sometimes.

Pervert: Woo!

Bad Joke Center: That's my job! You prick! You thoughtless prick!

Me: And with that, it's back to the Voiceover.

Budding Alcoholism: Voiceover?

Me: Vodka and orange soda.

Budding Alcoholism: Yeahhhhhhh!

Probably More Here Than Anyone Wants To Know

Me: That's it. I should not be allowed in public anymore. Simple as that.

Ego: Why now?

Me: Because when I'm at home and sequestered away, I can control Libido.

Realism: Somewhat at least. And when you're in public?

Libido: WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Me: See for yourself.

Pragmatism: ...holy God.

Libido: Pretty tiny redhead! No, brunette with unreal legs! No, pharmacist that looks exactly like Kristen Bell! Too many choices! Blargh!

Confusion: So wait, is he dying?

Me: No. He's just paralyzed with indecision. Kind of like if you have a choice of beers but can only have one.

Budding Alcoholism: ALL is one.

Self-Loathing: But you don't get ANY! It's like having that choice and not having anything.

Ego: Hey, suck one.

Self-Loathing: It's not a mean thing! It's a TRUE thing. You said it yourself many times before. It's not like you are being DENIED a beer. You are actively walking away from the damn table. YOU are spiting Libido. Not anything else.

Me: That's not...

Self-Loathing: It absolutely is! You KILLED your Romanticism. Stone dead iced the fucker.

Zombie Romanticism: Blaaaaaaaaaaaaargh you did this blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

Me: He's still alive...ish.

Self-Loathing: Yes, because the ladies want all up on a dead, rotting thing.

Me: ...some do.

Pervert: Even I don't want in on them, dude. That's a little much.

Self-Loathing: You have to accept that by murdering Romanticism and burning down the internal bridge that could lead to Libido ACTUALLY getting a workout, you are cutting yourself off. Setting aside the fact that you look like Homo Habilus...

Bad Joke Center: YOU'RE a homo, habilus!

Self-Loathing: ...and the fact that you clearly don't care about your weight anymore and the fact that you have basically become a bitchy old curmudgeon, isolated and withdraw from any sort of polite society...

Ego: What's your POINT, mean...head...?!

Self-Loathing: My point is that even if you made yourself hot - a Herculean task as anyone would admit - you would still be emotionally unavailable.

Emotional Unavailability: Yo!

Me: That's not true at all.

Realism: Dude. Yes it is. Completely. I may not like the bastard but that doesn't stop him from being absolutely right.

Inner Child: Why is he right?

Me: He's not. He's a big dumb liar.

Internal Sadism: Hey man. I'm on your side. This is the perfect abuse for your junk.

Pragmatism: Wouldn't you be on the pro-romance side since that one provides so much more potential for both physical damage as well as plenty of expected emotional destruction? Don't you call it something like a...what is it again...a two-fer?

Internal Sadism: Ooh! You're right.

Libido: But wait! This way it is now leaves me struggling for breath and cruising hard towards impotence.

Internal Sadism: That one's good too! Oh, I just can't choose.

Me: How about you just let me do what I'm going to do and stop trying to psychoanalyze me, you bitches?!

Ego: Okay, that's good. That's totally healthy.

It's More Fun When Nobody's Home

Me: Sweet. I got the place to myself most of the day. What should I do first?

Libido: Well, you could...

Me: Yeah yeah yeah, that's already taken care of.

Libido: I'm appeased!

Music Lover: Workin' For The Weekend is always good.

Me: Yeah, I suppose we can do that.

Hidden Nudist: Bare-assed of course, right?

Me: It wouldn't be Personal Naked Dance Party Time if I had boxers on, would it?

Hidden Nudist: I suppose not, no.

Me: That sounds good though.Yeah, now that I have a carpeted place to dance, I don't have to risk slipping and breaking my cocyxx.

Internal Sadism: You know you COULD.

Me: But that's not going to happen so...yeah.

Self-Loathing: You can't dance! You're a fat white boy.

Ego: First off, fuck you. Second, remember Show Choir? Third, a good...fourteen years of music has given him more than just a rudimentary grasp of rhythm, you dick. And finally, fuck you again.

Self-Loathing: First, you wish. Second, that was eight years and eighty pounds ago. Third, rhythm doesn't mean he can dance. And finally, no, fuck YOU.

Me: Yeah, let's just not worry about that huh?

Pervert: God, you know what would be nice right now?

Me: Are you just going to say it anyways, regardless of my response?

Pervert: A nice tight butt.

Me: That answers my question.

Pervert: Clad only in a skinny white thong.

Me: Here it comes...

Pervert: Ridin' all up on the LOVEMATIC BRONCO!

Me: That...I mean, that's the gist of what I was expecting but...I mean...what?! Lovematic Bronco?

Pervert: Si, senor.

Me: I...okay. Sure.

Suspicion: Why are you so calm today?

Budding Alcoholism: A little vinogrease to work the pipes over.

Ego: Plus losing three pounds even after drunk last night again. Which is wholly bizarre.

Inner Child: Naked dancing!

Me: That too.

Libido: Naked anything is at least a step in the right direction. If you get my meaning.

Me: We got it, thanks.

Music Lover: This song is catchy!

Ego: Plus it's in our range. Rock it.

Realism: Can't really sing it around the parents though. They might not like a song called "Fuck You!".

Me: Well...yeah. Whatever. Hey, I know I'm risking it but where's...

OCD: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Me: You know. I'm not asking. Not going to do it. I'm going away. This one's over.

Prescience Is A Funny Thing

Me: Wow. I really hope nobody bid the over on the "three days" thing or they should be really disappointed. In me and themselves.

Self-Loathing: Not enough people read this literary masturbation to really justify giving a shit.

Ego: You are just about the opposite of helpful.

Motivation: I concur.

Megalomania: I conquer too! Malaysia this time.

Me: You...okay, just no.

Libido: So. How about that little redhead yesterday at your bro's college?

Me: Yeah, she had a ring on. Left hand. That's basically a diamond chastity belt.

Pervert: There are ways around that.

Anxiety: Don't explicate, please. I'm pretty sure suggesting what you want to suggest will set off every sex offender search database in the known world.

Pervert: I was just going to say to go up to her, introduce yourself and ask if you could take her to dinner. Maybe it wasn't an engagement ring. Maybe it was a promise ring and if that's the case, you KNOW you can get around that one.

Anxiety: Stoppit!

Pervert: What? I meant get around in the sense of dating her, getting married and enjoying your wedding night in peace.

Me: Huh...

Pervert: And then? Buttsex sans lube.

Me: THERE we go.

Romanticism: Aw. I thought we had something really sweet going there for a minute.

Me: Go away. I killed you. I dragged you out into the street and made you bite the curb.

Zombie Romanticism: Blaaaaargh! Loooooooooves! Blaaaaargh!

Me: Fuck.

Libido: WHERE?

Self-Loathing: Not in here.

Self-Respect: You know, you're really starting to hurt me.

Immaturity: That's what SHE said!

Self-Loathing/Libido: No she didn't.

Me: WILL YOU GIVE IT A REST?

Inner Child: Shouting means I get presents and ice cream for dinner!

Memory: I don't recall there ever being shouting.

Ego: I know I'm going to regret this, but what about Loud as Shit and Puppy?

Libido: Oh yeah! There was shouting there. Well, more accurately, whimpering. Oh good. Now I'm starting up again.

Me: Son of a bitch.

Fashion Sense: I do hate to sound like a broken record...

Me: Then don't. Offer something productive instead of bitching about the facial hair which, by the way, is going to grow out until I have a beard.

Fashion Sense: ...this is like walking down the Green Mile. I see my death in front of me.

OCD: NOT SHAVING LEADS TO INGROWN HAIRS AND A STEEP RISE IN FACIAL GERMS SUCH AS HERPES OR EBOLA!

Anxiety: Is that true?!

Me: No!

Latent Psychopathy: Ebola, you say? Now there's an intriguing little bugger...

Budding Alcoholism: You can drown us all out with box win!

Anxiety: You could also drown YOURSELF with box wine!

Internal Sadism: Really?!

Me: That wasn't a suggestion!

Internal Sadism/Self-Loathing: Awww.

Writer: I don't really serve any purpose here, do I?

Me: ...probably not, no.

Goals Are Set...And Will Probably Be Abandoned In Favor Of More Sleep

Me: Well, I made it to a second post. I should be proud, I think.

Self-Loathing: Of what? Of not making a one-off blog? How novel! You're the next Faulkner, alright.

Sarcasm: Sorry about that. We got our signals crossed. I mean this.

Me: God, I hate you both.

Self-Loathing: That makes two of us.

Inner Child: Yay! We're just sitting around in our underwear! This is fun!

OCD: ARE YOU NOT AWARE THAT NOT WEARING PROPER GARMENTS WHILE SITTING AT THE COMPUTER IS THE LEADING CAUSE OF ASS COOTIES?!

Me: Ass cooties.

Inner Child: No! No cooties! Avoid the cooties! I am scared of them!

Romanticism: No, you aren't. You never were worried about cooties. You've always loved the female form.

Libido: Not enough loving it, if you ask me.

Me: For the billionth time, I'm working on it.

Work Ethic/Libido/Self-Loathing: Like hell you are!

Fashion Sense: I would say that a good step in the direction of getting some crotch in your face or vice-versa would be to, you know, shave. Seriously. You're not going to grow a beard. You know it. I know it. We all know it. You just look homeless. You look less like someone who could provide for two people, rent an apartment, get a cat together, all that shit, and more like someone who's going to reach out of the shadows, grab a passing schoolgirl on her way home from Catholic school, tie her up, savage her, then let her go, all the time humming softly to yourself to block out her screams of terror.

Me: That was...um...oddly specific.

Pervert: And erotic!

Me: WHAT?!

Pervert: I'm kidding! Come on, man. Lighten up. I know you wouldn't REALLY do that. Just think about it while touching yourself and accidentally hanging yourself from your shower curtain is all.

Anxiety: You can DO that?!

OCD: SHOWERS ARE STASTICALLY THE MOST FILTHY PLACES IN THE HOUSE EVEN MORE THAN TOILETS DUE TO THE PREVAILING ACTIONS OF THEIR NOT BEING CLEANED VERY OFTEN AS WELL AS DUDES PISSING WHILE THEY'RE SHOWERING!

Reckless Endangerment: Look, Brosefsaurus. All you have to do is wear roller skates while you're cleaning your bad self and your feet will stay clean and staph infectionless.

Internal Sadism: Son of a bitch! Why did you tell him that?

Me: Because...you know what, I don't even know.

Self-Loathing: Shocker.

Ego: Will you knock it off? We are a valuable member of society!

Self-Loathing: How so? We live with his parents, don't have a job, don't work out, don't have a girlfriend, don't have more than a friend or two in town, don't maintain any semblance of a motivated schedule and are the clinical example of a graduate who got FUBARed by the system.

Realism: He's...got you there, man.

Hopeless Optimist: Soon we'll...

Everyone: SHUT THE FUCK UP, OPTIMISM!

Libido: But hey, at least I'm still up and running at maximum capacity. Of course, it's like leaving a Camaro running in the garage as you go on vacation, but it's still working!

Pervert: What year? What year Camaro? I need this.

Libido: Well, obviously a...

Me: I swear to God, if you say '69', I will stab my urethra with a pen cap.

Groinal Region: ...oh merciful Heaven, please let my torment end quickly and without much pain.

Libido: I was GOING to say '58 but I like your idea better.

Internal Sadism: Me too!

Latent Psychopathy: I'm bored.

Me: You better not be.

Budding Alcoholism: You could drink?

Me: That's your answer for everything! Bad day? Drink. Good day? Drink. My psychotic side is bored? Drink.

Budding Alcoholism: Dude. I'm budding alcoholism. What do you expect me to say? 'Gawrsh! Why don't you chomp down on a big ol' head of lettuce?' Because no. That's the stuff of assholes.

Bad Joke Center: Wait...I thought that...

Me: No! You don't get to respond to that one. Can we get back on track?

Work Ethic: First time I've heard you say that one in God knows how long.

Writer: Okay, here's the dill-y-o.

Me: What?

Writer: The...um...deal. Sorry. I was trying to be cool.

Self-Loathing: I just choked.

Libido: Haven't heard THAT one ever.

Me: ...

Writer: Okay! Sorry. My bad. Okay. You need to keep ME in good working order. So from now on, you need to post three times a day. Once here. Once on Dan Eats Cat Food. And once on your LiveJournal. All three, every day.

Motivation: Are you out of your bastard mind?!

Me: I'm talking to myself. No, I'm ARGUING with myself. So yeah, probably.

Work Ethic: You think you can do it?

Me: With YOU on my side, I can't fail.

Sarcasm: Sorry, that was me again.

Me: Readers, the over/under on this plan succeeding is three days. Place your bets now. We'll return tomorrow.