New Year’s Eve. I will have nobody to kiss me on New Year’s Eve. I will have nobody to buy a present for on Valentine’s Day. And really, I don’t give a shit about these things, but when the day actually approaches you become like the punk kid who was too hardcore to go to the prom but then gets a little pang of sadness when he sees all the other kids piling into a limo.
What would be nice is if dog shit returned to the Earth quickly. You hear about how flies and bacteria are remarkably efficient at bringing nutrients from waste organic matter back to the soil in a grand circle of life, but dog shit, which is just a pre-digested protein bonanza that any self-respecting bacterium should be proud to call home– dog shit just sits there for weeks turning black and encrusted and slowly drying out. So, come on, flies and bacteria. Come the fuck on. It’s like hearing someone bitch about unemployment while walking past 15 help wanted signs.
Note: this biography is about Kenneth Donald “Kenny” Rogers the golden-voiced and immaculately bearded performer, not the dog.
1938. Small town on the outskirts of Houston, Texas. A rough-hewn town. Out in the cracked Texas plains. Tumbleweeds, cactuses, possibly other succulents. Scrub and chaparral. Low slung bungalows with no indoor plumbing. Instead a pineboard outhouse with a quarter moon shaped hole carved in the door like outhouses always have, that the locals refer to by some quaint vernacular such as “the jakes.”
The type of town that has a sign saying “N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you in (TOWN NAME),” which implies weirdly that they would be welcome in the daytime. N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you here– but by day, enjoy our fine restaurants and shops. Maybe it’s a courtesy. Like, they have vampires that only prey on blacks. Continue reading
If I did all the work I was supposed to do, there would still be more work. If I read all the things I was supposed to read– which would be a fucking superhuman feat, let me tell you. Reading twenty scripts and two full novels every week, if you had nothing else to do, would be pretty sustainable, but factor in that it’s the part of your job meant to be done in the off hours, nights and weekends, above and beyond the eleven hours per day that you are sitting on a desk concentrating on work related tasks– and then factor in that the vast majority of this shit just sucks. It would actually be a pleasure to read twenty good scripts and two smart, interesting novels per week — twenty scripts that were cool thrillers you couldn’t put down, or comedies that made you laugh; two novels that actually inspired you and taught you something new about the human condition. Or even a giant mass of hackish works that were nonetheless suitable for moving up the chain in this crass market-driven Hollywood world. But they always all suck, they are always not viable; it all turns out to have been for nothing. Destroying your scant leisure hours with crap, it all turns out to have been for nothing. Continue reading
This chick never texted me back. Sara. Beautiful girl. We had a great date. Ended up at her house; we had a Grateful Dead singalong for like 4 hours. I for one had a really good time. And we texted back and forth, and then I sent one kind of stupid text message, and it was over. Never heard back from her. Never will. Maybe I should have called her. But no. You can’t send two unrequited texts and then call her. Maybe I should have called her in the first place. Instead of texting her. Maybe maybe maybe. Every little thing. Maybe it’s something I fucked up in some way. And I would have gotten to have sex with her. But I also would have had to listen to, and pretend to like, her horrible horrible retarded music. Maybe it’s nothing to do with what I did. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. She works 3 jobs, two of which are at night, and has to spend her days flying around on wires into the mouth of a giant puppet of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, while singing. Every day I have to drive by a billboard of the goddamn Creature from the Black Lagoon and be reminded of her. There is nothing I can do about it now. I can’t text her. Anything I do would just debase myself, make it worse. This is the same shit that happened with Erin. I’m obsessed with it. The only thing that could possibly make me happy in the entire world would be if she were to text me back. Or If I met another, equally hot chick, who didn’t suck as much. Continue reading
She started hemorrhaging. They had to stop the surgery. They only got three of the five cancerous lymph nodes out. The other two were too close to blood vessels, and she had been given blood thinner, and she had already bled all over the damn place apparently, and lost so much blood that she was in danger of dying.
So she’s out; she is alive; she is talking and mentally composed. She is at her house laying around in bed all day eating soup and popsicles* and watching HBO Go. The three cancerous lymph nodes being gone is good; it isn’t some bullshit where the surgery was all for nothing. Three fifths of the cancerous mass being gone, like some slave voting compromise. The remaining two they will continue to try to shrink with radiation. Which you should read in the tone of Marvin Gaye singing in “What’s Goin’ On.”
I fucking told her going in: don’t hemorrhage. You’re gonna get on that operating table and you’re gonna want to hemorrhage all over the place, but don’t do it. They need to keep your blood in your veins to finish the operation. And of course, what’s the first fucking thing she does. Stubborn. Continue reading
I used to do coke for three days at a time and then crash by compulsively masturbating for hours. I used to roll around with my degenerate buddies in the back of a pickup truck, fucked up on pills, throwing homemade pipe bombs at people’s houses. I dated a crackhead and was engaged to a needle junkie. I impregnated one girl who miscarried on heroin and another, a daughter of one of my professors, who was (REDACTED) years old. I went to a mental institution after threatening to jump out the window of my fiancee’s apartment. I took 50 10-mg. ritalins in one night. I resuscitated a guy from a heroin overdose in my house by giving him CPR; he had been eating coffee grounds for some reason and he vomited them when he awoke. It looked like potting soil. I fell off my bike and ripped off my entire thumb; it had to be surgically reattached. My girlfriend overslept when we had a date and I reacted by kicking her car over and over, leaving dozens of huge dents. I often had the chance to fuck hot girls but I was impotent from cocaine so I would pretend that I wanted to stop for emotional reasons. I only ever devirginized one chick but I came from the tightness when I got it halfway in– so I pretended, again, that I wanted to stop for emotional reasons. She was menstruating so I don’t think she noticed my nut. I made out with a man a couple times. I have fucked prostitutes on several occasions and in fact barebacked one repeatedly. I had a medical condition that would cause me to shit myself at work. My left nut is the size of a fist. The first time I ever masturbated, I thought that it was something no one had ever accomplished before and that I would be renowned as a great genius for discovering it. I fucked a three hundred pound woman. I once fucked a hooker doggystyle with a hemorrhoid coming out of her butthole. I jerked it a bunch to horse porn, and a couple times to a Japanese chick getting fucked by a boston terrier.
Anyway, good morning.