How To Write A Resolution Or A Memorial: Fill & Download for Free

I'm 24, male.I am so addicted to porn and mastrubation that nothing else matters anymore. I'm not only wasting time, but also experiencing many side effects like erecrile dysfunction, weak memory and I'm dull most of the time and emotion-less. This addiction has taken away all I ever cared for. I have disappointed my friends. I disappointed my parents. I was expected to study. But, I just couldn't concentrate because of this addiction. I failed IITJEE exam in 2012 because of it. That happened long time ago. But, things haven't changed. It has taken control over my life. I feel guilty after I mastrubate. But, I find it difficult to stop myself. I keep shagging it even when I get pain in my d***. In the beginning, when I was in 8th class, I mastrubated for the first time and since then I would do it every time when no one is at house. I would do it repeatedly till I get pain in my di**. But, now I do it even when there is pain. I watch hardcore videos because typical love making videos don't excite me anymore. I have watched all famous most viewed videos on PH and XV. I know all famous pornstars.I tried no fap and failed many times. But, this year I felt like I should make a resolution to not fap and get freed from the clutches of this addiction. And since, december 31 night or new year, I didn't get any erection. I tried to not touch it. And stayed away from porn. You can understand the seriousness of my ED. Today, i got hard when i was lying on my stomach. I immediately stood up And I am feeling my will weaken. I'm was just a click away from opening a porn site. I even opened my browser. But, instead typed http://quora.com and I am writing what I feel here.I wonder how bhishma( mahabharat) manage to become celibate with one promise at once and live by it till death. My goal is smaller before his. Going without it for a day was a big thing for me. But, now it's 4th day and counting. I don't know how long I can stay this way.I have fu**ed up enough of my life because of this addiction. I want to live a normal life. I want freedom. I don't want this instant gratification. I want real happiness. Real love. I want control of my life. Please advice.Edit 1: Thank you everyone for valuable advice. It's jan 6th night and I'm still sober. I have started doing some bodyweight exercises at home in the morning. Having pumped up muscles helps a lot. When I feel like fapping, I just tire myself by doing inclined pushups(as I still haven't reached regular push-up progression). I'll update my progress again on 31 jan. That's my aim for now.Edit 2: I couldn't find the anon link of this answer. I had to go through the stats of the question to find it. Progress: I relapsed on 12th night. Then, i was back to my old me for 4 days and then back to no fap till now. Its not so hard to resist now. But, I noticed that my erections have become harder lately. I have also turned a bit spiritual like I'm listening and reading hanuman chalisa. It helps. I do bodyweight exercises daily without fail.

There are two ways.Start writing. Tell the story you have in mind any way you can. Get it down. Don't stop. Keep writing until you get to the end. When you have finished, put it away for at least a week -- longer if possible.Then print it out and read it from beginning to end. Resist the urge to edit the manuscript, just read it. When you are done reading, make notes from memory: things you liked, things that should be changed, things that are missing.Now, treat the manuscript and your notes as the basis for an outline. Find a good opening that will catch the reader's interest. Then build up the sequence of information scene by scene to a final crisis, climax, and resolution. Expect this to involve tearing the first draft apart and reorganizing it so that it maintains reader interest and flow from one scene to the next. Don't hesitate to leave things out if they no longer seem to belong.Then start again and rewrite the whole thing from the outline you have made.Keep writing until you get to the end. Put the manuscript away for as long as you can. Then bring it out, read in through, make notes from memory, and revise.Now you can show it to others for their opinion.Start by making notes about who does what, where, and when. Describe each person. List each event that happens.When your notes are complete, use them to make an outline from the beginning of the book to the end.Then start writing. Use your outline as a checklist to make sure that everything that needs to be included gets into the story. Don't worry if you have to change the order of the way you tell the story from the way it is in the outline. That happens to everyone.Once you start writing, keep going until you reach the end. There is a point somewhere in the middle when everything you have written seems dull, dreadful, amateurish, and terrible. The voice in your head will tell you that you have to stop, fix it, and start again. I can't tell you how many masterpieces have never reached publication because the writer listened to that voice. Keep writing.Get to the end. Put the manuscript away for as long as you can. Then bring it out and read in through. You'll probably notice it is much better than it seemed in the middle of writing when the voice in your head was telling you to stop. Make notes from memory, and revise.Now you can show it to others for their opinion.Good luck.

“Meg! Meg, wake-up!” Nate’s hand reached through the car window to shake my shoulder. I was slumped against the passenger’s side, drooling stuporously onto my sleeve. We had driven, in shift, eighteen hours that day, through however many states, to wherever we were now, and I just wanted to crawl into bed for the night and be done.Our macaw, riding in the backseat, rattled the bars of his cage and squawked. The terrier barked. Startled, I stretched, came to life and glanced around at the pine forest and rustic dirt parking lot surrounding us. The car engine idled in front of a tiny yellow building— the campground office. Outside the door huddled a small, frantic flurry of folks.“Meg! Come here! We need you!” I flailed for the door handle and jumped out. Now I could see the rotund frame of a middle-aged man sprawled across the sidewalk. His skin was already the color of death.The campground manager knelt alongside. I parted the crowd and fell to the ground next to him, my hands already reflexively folded, one over the other, my elbows extended, locked and poised. “Sir? Sir!!” I shouted, and heard only the murmuring of bystanders in response. He wasn’t breathing; he had no pulse. Leaning deep into his chest I began compressions.10 compressions. 2 breaths. Again. Again. Automatically, I hummed the tune to “Staying Alive” to keep pace and rhythm. “Has anyone called 911? Do you have a defibrillator?” They had, and they didn’t. My heart was pounding and my back ached. Sweat pooled at the nape of my neck. Nodding to the camp manager at my left, I gave cursory instructions on how to assume compressions and let him take over while I took a breather to regather my strength.Nate and I were moving cross-country. I had just graduated, with top honors, from my general surgery residency in SoCal and we were currently headed to my trauma fellowship in Maryland. Now, somewhere in the humid depths of Oklahoma, this happened. My nerves snapped and I grew light-headed. Was this a sign? A test? A challenge? Against a setting sun brewed ominous, tea-colored rainclouds. I was supposed to save lives, I thought. That was what I had driven all this way to do. Surely I was meant to save his.But I didn’t. The ambulance arrived and declared him dead at scene. The body, beneath a drape of gray wool, was loaded aboard, and the doors clacked shut, one after another. Someone told his wife, I don’t know who. The campground manager offered to upgrade our tent site— all we could afford at the time— to a cabin, with real sheets, blankets, and mattresses. And windows to keep out the mosquitos.I stared out that window, long into the hours of early morning, willing sleep to come but finding none. We had another interminable stretch of road ahead of us tomorrow, and I had to get some rest. Still, the memory— of his pale cool skin, the dank taste of his breath as it mixed with my own, and the grinding snap of his ribs breaking with every pump— trickled in icy rivulets around my heart. I couldn’t rest. I could barely breathe. I opened my laptop to type.It is what I do when I am upset, or overwhelmed, or confused. It is how I cope, a form of processing. By the time the essay is put to paper and revised, my words almost always make sense. I can isolate a theme. A moral. A reason. A resolution.Sometimes my story tumbles and squirts out of me, like children on a waterslide. Sometimes it beams, like a ray of light. Other times I am sure it tears free of me on its own power, like an alien lifeform, feeding, swelling and rupturing in my gut. And then there are the days it must be pried loose, dissected off the surrounding organs like a tumor threatening my life. This was one of those.I didn’t know what to say in conclusion. Why he had died, or what I had learned. So the essay lay unfinished for many years. I took it up again tonight, on a slow call night, hoping to find new or hidden inspiration. I haven’t. The frailty of my own unanswered pleas bleeds across the screen, taunting me to my core. Why? WHY?Perhaps the question is itself an answer. Or there is no answer. Perhaps what I understand now is that some things in life— and death— were never meant to be understood.