She’s still in the shower. I just learned Hepatitis C is not transmitted sexually. Per the Hepatitis C Association, which I may now have to join:
- Couples with one HCV positive partner had a 2.5 per cent transmission rate over 20 years of unprotected sex
- HCV is not found in semen or vaginal fluid
- Sexual transmission may be a factor among MSM (Men who have Sex with Men)
So you get Hep C if you fuck men. Your dick gets cut by his dry ass. His ass gets cut by your dry dick. But I fuck women. Therefore: call me sushi, I’m goin in raw. Continue reading
Once you make a rule– in this case, “Sunday morning is writing time–” once you make a rule, the opposite will happen. I took time to do other things. Sixteen minutes to whiten my teeth. Put on a Biore nose strip. Trim my body hair. Sixteen minutes. Enough to derail all meaningful thought for sixteen hours. I’ll never write again. All the other shit I’ve made this week: fucking garbage. Therefore I’ll never be famous. Never make the girls melt like the comedian who shared at AA last night. Now I have to google him like every woman in the room did. God dammit why wasn’t I a comedian. No one googles me but me. Although I do it enough to affect SEO.
Well they can’t do what I do, I think. Sit down at the keys to prove it. Watch the wizardly words flow out of my fingers. Crisply honed sentences. Metaphors that connect souls to truths they’ve thought their whole lives in unguarded corners of the mind but were just inchoate murmurs, until now… WATCH ME. WATCH ME, MOTHERFUCKERS–
Accept defeat. I’ll never write anything good again. What’s left of me. Half decent guitar player; about 60% funny. Enough to get a sideways glance from a fat elderly woman covered in roast beef purple cysts, maybe.
(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)
A four bedroom house in Hot Springs Montana is 99 thousand fucking dollars. Estimated mortgage: $382 a month. You get a separate detached cottage. The cottage alone, in this shithole fucking city I live in – this disgusting extension of Mexico but with additional loud helicopters and barking dogs and garbage taxes and women who’d rather be set on fire than smile at you– a cottage next to a stucco nest of murderous bike stealing cholos who grill cactuses and light off fireworks and gun Harleys 24 hours a day, as many of them in there as termites in one of those twelve foot mounds in Kenya– this shed costs seven hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars, plus property taxes to pay for schools with the literacy rate of the fucking Hills Have Eyes family; the mortgage after a hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars down is the entire pre-tax income of the median American household. Continue reading
Two girls left me in two days. I’ll die alone if I don’t get famous.
I need more women fans. More women fans under 30. More women fans under 30 who live in Los Angeles. I need more women fans under 30 in Los Angeles who are Asian. The only race I stay attracted to. Even then just barely. Eight dates, I don’t want to fuck them anymore. Continue reading
I have a date tonight. 38 years old. Look at her profile. Half Asian with excellent bone structure. But who cares. What am I gonna do, have kids with her? One quarter Asian kids with half a good looking face? She’s 38. Biologically useless. Fucking her, as productive as sticking my dick in a log. Plus she’s banged 10,000 indie rock bassists no doubt. Has herpes and the bad kind of HPV. The log it is then. Continue reading
image stolen from birthcontrolbuzz.com
What the fuck is a guy in a band going to tell me about pussy. I need a sponsor who’s also a pathetic nebbish. Someone who only barely gets laid through excruciating toil.
Went to an SLAA meeting last night. You think it’s gonna be like AA. Where you hear a guy saying woke up from a blackout in upside down in my flipped minivan… felt something warm in my face… it was my son’s blood… I crawled to the liquor store… and everyone laughs. SLAA is a bunch of weird old Lesbians talking about getting molested. 3 young Mexican bottoms with baby deer eyes always on the verge of weeping. One old bear who does, admittedly, have great stories about banging sailors on meth. But it’s all weepy shit. I shared. I hate this organization, I said. No jerking off and no looking at girls. I want sharia law to be imposed but I’d find away to jerk off to a woman’s eyebrows. In conclusion: fuck all of you; this group just makes makes me miserable. No one laughed.
********** Continue reading
Northern shovelers. image stolen from tgreybrids.com
Here is the problem. I truly am addicted to this shit. To sex, to the possibility of sex, to validation from women. Alcohol made me feel good while I was drinking it. But women kept me feeling human for weeks. Months. If I’ve not fucked recently, I’m not a person. I’m not worth being alive.
Once I could get a new one every three months and be OK. Then a week. Now the day after I fuck a woman I might like– if she gets a weird on text the next day I think I’m an ugly freak and no one could ever love me. Fantasize about my lonely childless death. Or while my dick was in one girl, I’d feel desperate about other girls. Continue reading