Hephzibah Anderson's Big Book of Lies

As a general rule, I'm against book burning. For example, I was strongly against that guy with the cool moustache in Florida burning the Koran last weekend. It turns out that Muslims get super-upset when you do that, so I try to avoid it whenever I can. I'll bet that you had no idea that I was so sensitive, did you?
That's not to say that I'm categorically against all book burning, however. Books represent ideas, and all ideas are not equal. In fact, there are some books and ideas that are so idiotic and repulsive that they deserve nothing less than the hottest flames available.

I'm not speaking of Hitler's Mein Kampf or Benito Mussolini's My Rise And Fall, both of which I own. They're ridiculous and unreadable books, but they're also important historical documentations of the evil that men do, and therefore they should be preserved.

No, I'm here to tell you about a truly evil and horrible book. This is a book that can cause you nothing but misery if you read it and live your life according to its awful precepts.

I'm here to tell you about Hephzibah Anderson's Chastened: The Unexpected Story of My Year Without Sex.

Despicable things have always been committed to paper before and there has never been a shortage of amoral publishers willing to market them. That those ideas would ruin and pollute everything that humanity is supposed to isn't their problem, or so they would have us believe. However, there are some books that are so beyond the pale of pointless bitterness thath they actually become crimes against humanity in and of themselves.

From what I've heard - and my sensibilities are far too delicate to bear reading it myself - Chastened is such a tome. We're at war and I believe that this book is a crime, so where is the U.N when I need them?

Chastened is the grotesque memoir of a woman for whom sex without love wasn't enough. Oh no, she needed to try love without sex. Sure, she might jerk off a motherfucker, or find herself wonderfully fingerbanged, but that was as far as her intellectually empty idea of love went for twelve whole months. Didn't George Orwell write a book full of ideas like this

Oh Lord, is there is a worse fate than that? Is there anything more powerfully ugly or solely designed to question Your Heavenly Existence? Of course there isn't. Chastened is the Crown of Thorns brought upon all of our heads. Until I first heard of this malevolent tome, I didn't believe in the idea of Hell. I do now.

I'm so sickend by the idea that a book like Chastened even exists that I can't show the cover or even a picture of the author, who actually isn't unattractive. Instead, I'll just show pictures of Rosario Dawson. She's what I turn to when I find myself overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the world, mostly because she's everything that any man could ever hope for in a woman. Moreover, nobody with a body like that could ever deprive herself of sex for a year because of some silly sophmore thesis that it would make a man love her more.

Rosario could never betray me mankind like that. But Hephzibah Anderson did. And no one who believes in love should think of her as nothing less than a criminal for her efforts.

I guess that I can't really explain my hatred of Ms. Anderson, her book and everything that both explain without telling my story. It's painful, but it's a confession that I have to make.

You see, I spent the better part of a decade being in love without sex. And I'm here to tell you that there was nothing "enlightening" about it. It was a disgustining and terrifying way to live, and not something that I would wish on any of you.

I was in love with two women during that time. However, I was painfully unable to have sex with either of them. I can tell you all that it would have been the most beautiful and pleasurable experience of either of their lives, but neither of them wanted to have a goddamned thing to do with me. Something about them already having boyfriends comes to mind.

Don't get me wrong, I fucked other women during that period. Just not the ones that I was in love with. Not having sex with the women I loved was painful, but that pain was mitigated by having sex with women who's names I don't remember today. I think it had something to do with the release of endorphins. Oh, and the massive waves of alcohol didn't exactly hurt, either.

After that long, extended and horribly wrong period, love and sex managed to line up nicely. After all, how could it not? I have a blog! And I was sleeping with them within an hour of meeting them for the first time. Sadly, none of them lf them were Rosario Dawson, but some of them were probably better. However, nearly a third of them were married at the time. It was a great decade, indeed!

Then something devious and wrong happened. I met my current girlfriend and had to wait an entire four dates before plowing her like a farmer's field. Worse still, there was nary a blowjob or a surruptious handjob to be had. And I even took her to a movie where a guy shot up a whole bunch of women at an engineering school! And that was one of my most popular posts ever !

How could I have not been the man of her dreams? I was worried because I really liked this girl. A lot! But there was just no fucking to be had for nearly a month. This is something that I hadn't tolerated in nearly a decade, and I was beginning to worry. Was I becoming less of a man. Was I beginning to look like Paul McCartney's mother, just like Paul McCartney?

Thankfuly, I wasn't. We had a holly, jolly Christmas, and we remain together to this day. But I was almost afraid that she was going to turn out to e one of those Hephzibah Anderson bitches that haunted me all the way through my twenties.

I might get anal yet. Stranger things have happened, right?