Trying to cut a butternut squash. They should make the president’s limo out of this fucking shit.
What animal that has ever existed could possibly eat a butternut squash? Isn’t the point of a fruit that wildlife eats it and disperses the seeds? A fucking triceratops couldn’t get through this thing.
You can’t get out of the “what do you do” question. It is always, ALWAYS the first thing people ask after learning your name. I was told that Europeans consider it rude but apparently not since every single fucking European ever also does it in every conversation. What do you do? What is the only activity on the entire planet, in all of history, that you just spent 60 miserable, thankless and non-remunerative hours doing, and now are trying to spend one of your scant free moments escaping from– WHAT IS THAT THING, I demand that you tell me immediately and spend several minutes discussing it by rote, either for some venal “industry” reason or because I am so completely unimaginative that I’m incapable of discussing any other fucking topic. And you try to steer them away from it, and they fucking INSIST. “No, but really– what do you do?” I’m the Senior Vice President of Go Fuck Yourself. Jesus.
Yes, it sucks. Yes it sucks. It sucks if you’re a guy– you are gonna send out tons of messages and get nothing back; no one ever looks at you; you are gonna be sending messages to the same three cute girls with a weight classification of “fit” or “thin” as everybody else and they have their pick and can flake on your in a heartbeat and there’s nothing you can do about it. It makes people more picky, so, if you are under five foot ten, beause she likes to wear four inch heels regularly and needs someone who is substantially taller than her while she is wearing these indispensable four inch heels, you are fucked. If you are bald and you hide it, you are fucked after the first date when your stupid fucking miniature fedora finally comes off. If you are bald and you don’t hide it, you are fucked before the first date. If you don’t have money, youre fucked; if you do have money, you can’t mention it without coming off like a douche, and being fucked. You are fucked. And there is no hope.
Labor, agony, tedium, deprivation. The shattering damage to your joints and tendons. The shattering damage to your social and leisure life. The horrible diminishing returns as you approach the goal– an unholy small percentage of body fat– getting down to like thirteen per cent is manageable but that’s a merely OK body. To have any real muscle definition whatsoever you need to be below ten per cent body fat, which requires a hideous self-flagellatory cardio routine that makes you unbelievably hungry combined with a stark bare food regimen so that you’re constantly obsessed with food; the smell of food is like a whiff of a teenage girl’s ovulating vagina and a commercial for cookies is like porn.
And then once you get there you need to maintain it with hours upon hours of boredom and pain that you NEVER slack off on, just in case someone should happen to see you shirtless and that one extra millimeter of body fat you’ve accrued is the fulcrum of their decision whether or not to sleep with you. Because you believe that the world is this way– that you will have lifted weights religiously for years and years and years and then suddenly the ONE time you slack off for a few weeks is the time it will matter. Suddenly a beautiful intelligent interesting woman will be nearby and you will be required to remove your shirt, perhaps for a tourniquet or something.
every time you see a bunch of guys wearing some stupid thing, reflect on the fact that it is completely, 100% women’s fault. Because you once fucked some guy wearing flannel, one of the early adopters, and he then went and wore his lucky shirt out every weekend, and people said, hey, look, that guy who gets laid is wearing flannel, I better pick up some flannel myself. This is why we see so many Psycho-billy guys and all the other weird subgenre uniforms. Some girl who couldn’t get laid with the singer in a band fucked a guy with the same hair instead and now we all have to live with this. Dice tattoos, etc. Reverend Horton Heat is still getting dudes laid in Glendale and I haven’t heard from him since he was on Beavis & Butthead.
Ugh, thinking about work. Thinking about work on a Sunday. Not only that, but I better get off this journal and go do some actual fucking work. On a Sunday. Because I am a white collar professional in the United States of America in 2012. Typically, in the past, a job with these sorts of demands would have a least paid you handsomely. But now, everything is in decline. Every industry. So we all gotta work harder, we gotta work longer, we gotta do more with less. We gotta hustle. So many people want your job that you are constantly auditioning for your job. And yes, I know it’s better than getting your hands chopped off in some Sierra Leonian diamond mine at age ten. My point is, only marginally. Continue reading
It’s funny that the kind of porn I want to watch– young, attractive people who appear to actually like each other having sex in non-gymnastic positions until he ejaculates in her– it’s funny that this is a fetish. Specifically, if you don’t want to see a guy blow a fire-hydrant like load on a chicks face while she pretends to lick it up from around her mouth, you must watch “creampie” porn, which started out as just, you know, regular fucking except the guy blows his load inside her, and has devolved now into a whole subgenre where the girl lets the jizz dribble out of her gaping ass into a martini glass which is on top of a plexiglass coffee table so you can shoot from below, and then drinks out of the glass. Or it’s one of those fake “amateur” porns that reintroduces theatrical acting into the porn, a scenario where the girl repeatedly says “don’t cum inside me don’t cum inside me” and then he cums inside her, albeit holding his dick so only the very tip is in her to insure the jizz remains fully visible as the camera cuts to it oozing out before panning up to the girl’s face where she is cartoonishly slanting her eyebrows into an “angry” expression while berating him. You can’t just have a couple fucking and then he starts going a little faster, then suddenly grabs her real hard and pushes into her while holding her in a deathgrip like a koala bear on a eucalyptus and makes a dopey face likes he’s taking a shit and then relaxes. Which is all I want to do in life, you know, just cum in a chick and then relax. But you can’t see that in porn. Continue reading
Going out and trying to meet a girl at a bar is like, when in Legend of Zelda, you had to, to get the raft or something, you had to burn down a bush with the candle. And you didn’t know which bush. There are thousands of bushes in the game. So you just went around with your candle through each screen burning each individual bush. That’s what going out is like, only without the certainty that there even IS a raft, or a ladder, or whateverthefuck it was. Like looking for the raft without the correct issue of Nintendo Power. That’s why Legend of Zelda sucked.
OK. Sitting in the park. Opted to write over playing guitar. This is therefore the one day when a hot available chick would have been walking in the park, heard my magnificent guitar playing, stopped and talked to me, and then had sex with me. Stayed with me for all my long days and borne me many children. Now instead I will die alone.