She makes me cum too fast. I can’t be completely honest about her because she reads this, but this is one thing she already knows. Fucking on that couch; it’s hot, my balls keep slipping under her ass on the sweaty leather and getting squashed but it’s pleasurable. Her ass is just wringing out my distended sac, and it makes me pop off in two seconds every time. I want to say: let me take a moment to reel in my dirigible sized nutbag so your sweaty ass doesn’t keep rubbing it in the leather; this is what’s making me prematurely ejaculate, but– how do you ever say that sentence. I can barely even type it.
But also because she is twenty two years old and small and not on birth control. Just the smell of the back of her neck. Just the smell of her. Laying around my hot apartment for two days without showering. My bed is awash with her twenty two year old ovulating cuntmusk. I wish it had been fifty days and we lived in god damn Nigeria. In some malarial swamp where she would sweat more. I wish she would eat Indian food and go jog up a mountain in the one hundred and eight degree heat and then wrap herself in layers and layers of every piece of clothing I own under a heat lamp. Twenty two. There is no faking it. This is the thing that billions of dollars and millions of man hours of science are trying to recapture; white bunnies getting their eyelids ripped off in stacks and stacks of wire cages and sprayed with chemicals; people getting their faces slashed up and pulled back like Ed Gein, soaps and lotions and perfumes and hours of grueling tendon wrenching excercise. All to approximate this: the version that God made. Continue reading
I received an email via this blog:
Want sex/need STD test
I’ve been reading your blog for the past hour or so. I saw your OkCupid profile on my handle (REDACTED), in which I’m a 29 year old bisexual woman who lives in Los Angeles. I am actually a 22 year old straight woman who lives in Long Beach. But I work in (REDACTED neighborhood). I’m also 5’4, not 5’10. We should have sex.
You haven’t seen my views on OkCupid because I turned on anonymous browsing. I use that profile to look at exes and people like (REDACTED), who I had awesome sex with for two months until he broke things off because he found out that I was fucking (REDACTED minor celebrity).
Oh, it’ll have to be protected sex unless you want to wait until my October 2 STD test.
********* Continue reading
All work is beneath me. I should spend my days enthroned, being sexually serviced by sixteen year old virgins. I should just be constantly impregnating our nation’s teens. All of womankind should exist solely to serve as vessels for my offspring. I should have a variety of fruits constantly available to me, regardless of whether they’re in season.
Ain’t that the motherfuckin truth; OKC blowing your game with the constant “Online Now” shit. I’m trying to appear aloof here. It’s like these people never tried to get laid before.
I’m trying to appear like the kind of person who doesn’t have to seek out dates on the internet when I’m seeking out dates on the internet. Like I’m too busy failing to return the texts of, you know, models and stuff who are constantly haranguing me for a date. Models and PhD’s and like United States Congresswomen. Supreme Court Justices, but hot. Tennis stars from Russia. I’m way too busy ignoring this army of gorgeous accomplished women who would give their left nut to go on a date with me to be browsing this site as constantly as this status indicator would have you believe. Just so you know.
Look- here’s the deal:
You are broke
Hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt
You just turned thirty, and your eggs are dried up, only good for autistic retarded children
Our industry is collapsing
You live in squalor with filthy pets
You are a revolving door of meaningless relationships with untalented comedians who will only endlessly break your heart
In a cycle of diminishing returns
So I need to date a porn star. I need to date someone who is in the sex industry. Someone whose life’s work is a study of sexiness and how to keep guys’ interest sexually. Because I become bored with somebody after maybe three times fucking them. And I’ve given up on them engaging me as human beings. Or, some of them do, but we end up being friends; they can’t be my girlfriend because I don’t want to fuck them anymore. The sex is what holds up my being in a relationship. But the sex becomes a chore, quickly switching from something I have to push for, which lasts all of one first date, to something they have to push for. When they are no longer new pussy, who gives a shit. So I need a girl who can overcome that. And the good news is, I don’t give a shit, you know, morally, if someone is employed in the sex industry. I am not a stick in the mud. But just like I kind of see it as my “work” in a relationship to be amusing and witty and full of valuable facts and ideas and etc., I need someone who sees it as their “work” in a relationship to change up their appearance and maybe walk around in a diaper and take an active role in fucking, persuading me to fuck, getting me off in new and innovative ways, etc.
I need to be beguiled. This is the danger of staying single too long. Of getting too much pussy. Of not “putting the pussy on a pedestal.” Of achieving the dream of being a “player,” someone to whom the act of putting your penis into a new young attractive woman is as rote as putting on a pair of shoes– when you win, it becomes bathwater. Something you’re just used to. Continue reading
Image stolen from Kourtney Williams of Comedicprose.com
Still haven’t had the hammer drop. Work is creeping back to normal. I am becoming scared of my boss again just out of reflex. Maybe he changed his mind? Maybe it turned out to be not cheap to fire me, is what it is. He thought he could hire someone else at half my salary and found out it’s not nearly that little, or maybe he’s just waiting for TV development season to be over. For things to slow down. But in any case, no; I have incontrovertible evidence. Even if he can’t hire a guy out of the Home Depot parking lot to do my job. It’s not an if, it’s a when.
So I’m still working but I know I’m gonna get fired. The weird thing is, all this Mitt Romney shit– where he was secret camera-ed talking about how forty seven per cent of the people are mooching bums who just want a handout from the government– even though I am still working my ass off every motherfucking day and contributing generously to the federal tax base, I still feel shamed when he says that. Because I MIGHT be collecting unemployment in the future. Soon I will be a useless layabout dragging society down; the world would be better served if I were meat for Romney’s Afghan Hounds. Put your nose to the grindstone, boy– treat finding a job like it is your job. There are makers and takers, producers and moochers, and we rightly spit on these moocher-takers who just lay around all day collecting the money that they’ve been forced to pay into the unemployment system over their thousands and thousands of hours of working hard as hell, nonstop, for twelve fucking years. Twelve years I haven’t had time off from having a job. Never took a big vacation. When I wasn’t working, I was interning; spending my savings from my last job working my ass off to work for free so I could get another job working my ass off. I didn’t feel great about being a productive member of society during this time. I felt like shit. I did not get to smugly revel in my low drag pay taxes and never cost the government a cent lifestyle. But now that I’m getting the shitcan I feel like an unworthy slug. I will have no purpose in society. Continue reading
Man, but what the fuck am I gonna do? What’s out there? It’s the worst economy of all time and hobos with Humphrey Bogart stubble are getting shooed away from picking up yard apples by an angry apron-wearing fat man with a shotgun and heading back hungry to hobo camp with their belongings in a bandana on a stick. They’re combing their hair with a fish skeleton before using a tissue to turn it into a harmonica on which they blow mournful tunes about being hopeless and broke. College graduates are having lethal shiv fights in a firelit railyard over a lone kidney bean in the bottom of a can being cooked over a burning tire. The bean came to life; it had a face; it said “kill for me.” Families are slaughtering their pets for shish kebabs, probably their kids too. Abortion clincis have become Hardee’s Buffets. The elderly are being burned for heat. Our cars are broken down and being pulled by donkeys, but we had to eat the donkeys; our daughters are sucking cock for nickels and our sons are wrestling pumas in a chickenwire cage in front of a warehouse of leering Mexicans for sport. You see the gleam of a glass bottle on the side of the road, and you see another guy seeing it too, looking at you askance; there’s a tense second of mutual eyefucking before it’s like two Tasmanian Devils wrestling over a bitch in heat. The bottle is crushed beneath you; you reach for a shard to slash the other guy’s throat and then weep and fumblingly try to mash the bottle back together, that precious five cents…
Because you’re pretty smart, but you have fallen into every single trap that good looking girls do. You believe in astrology, The Law of Attraction™, organic carrot juice being put in your ass to cure cancer. You are acutely interested in shoes and handbags. The weird thing is you discuss all this shit intelligently. You hear any of this shit from a fat chick and they’d rightly be told to fuck off. Get back to the farm. But you, you’re gonna carry this stupid shit with you for your whole life. Nobody ever wants to tell you there’s no tooth fairy. Like, the greatest genius in rural Swaziland still believes in sorcery, because no one’s around to tell him: “no, physics.” Instead he becomes the best shaman with the farthest reaching knowledge of how sodomizing a bull and having virgins drink the collected semen while wrapped in asps will ensure power, strength and virility for seven years.
I have a headache from drinking almost a whole fifth of Mexican brandy and smoking like eight cigarettes. I went upstairs and drank with my neighbors and watched Saturday Night Live. It is horrible and unfunny. Their new Obama impersonator sounds exactly nothing like Barack Obama. Seth McFarlane was the host and his monologue was him showing off Family Guy voices. He has four hundred million dollars. Saturday Night Live is so awful, and I was so blind drunk that I was almost hallucinating, like it was an acid trip, and watching the hackish and cheap and predictable television show made me think I had gone back to the 50′s. Like there would be a news break and Edward R. Murrow would come on smoking a Pall Mall and talking about Dwight D. Eisenhower. There are probably a hundred creative staff on that show and they have all week to come up with 55 minutes worth of stuff and you always hear about how the new players are crushed when their sketches get cut and tons of material is culled so it’s only the best of the best of the best and the show fucking sucks so hard. It’s because it’s people who went to Harvard. It’s upper middle class WASPs and Jews who grew up in Westchester County or the nice part of Jersey and their parents were prosperous oral surgeons or Attorney General of the State and were not alcoholics and did not beat or molest them. The writers and actors on Saturday Night Live are establishment types. The cream of the crop of normal people. And their suffering is only suffering to try to get on Saturday Night Live– having to have bad auditions for six months and living in Manhattan with five roommates after college. People like this are just walking job interviews. They are incapable of ever being honest about anything. But if you put Artie Lange, who is a fat ugly heroin addict who tried to kill himself, if you just put him on TV for 55 minutes plus incessant commercial breaks it would be funny as fuck.
Nikol, you should text that to Lorne Michaels next time you’re drunk. That his show fucking sucks and I’d rather watch my family on fire than anything he’s put his name on in the last fifteen years. Throw an anti-semitic slur in there too, why not.