I’m sitting staring into the middle distance of my beige veneer desktop and gritting like crazy against the tide of email sludge rolling into my inbox. Maybe if I turn the music up another few keystrokes I might be able to force a narrow bandwidth of my consciousness to concentrate on the administrative tasks at hand.
My mind wanders. I begin to wonder ‘how the hell does anyone do an administrative job without going completely bonkers’. And then I hit on it. Sex. Regularly orgasmic sex satiates the novelty seeking dopamine engine. You can then proceed, in a dampened state, to answer emails from 9 to 5 and shimmy on home to your spouse for some lights-out excitement. Just enough to stop you from wanting to introduce anything too exciting into the lights-on part of the day. Of course if you don’t have a willing spouse and you are sitting in front of the screen all day, our great online pornucopia is a receptacle of all that must be excluded from a well managed life.
I look around me. All the world is calmly typing.
And therein lies my problem, I have neither a willing spouse, nor a lust for novelty that can be satiated by any virtual experience. I have a physical need to be excited by my work. Does this mean that if, at some point in the future I were to get more regular action, I would acquiesce to my emails more easily? Or that my stimulation threshold might be lowered enough to focus on administrating myself a career?
As it stands, I am entertaining myself with the excitement of ideas, prurient textual connections, and the lure of another saunter down the hall.