A woman is flying from back East to visit me. A fan. She is fucking crazy, but I’m having her come out anyway. I need it that bad. Plus, Bukowski did it. Had girls fly out to fuck him for a couple days. He also killed a guy with a typewriter and slept on garbage cans– should I do that shit too? But if you write a couple hundred thousand words about fucking fat chicks and jerking off you start to get emails. Girls asking after your impotent, prematurely ejaculating micropenis. It can’t be that small, can it? They don’t want the image to interfere with some fantasy they have. Girls read about your emotional and sometimes physical abuse of other women and think: do me next!
There is no level you can deprecate yourself to that will not gain fans. Guys, I shat on a baby. I spend my spare time participating in racially motivated murder. I piss on schoolchildren and jerk off in front of the elderly. I go to the animal shelter with a flamethrower and set kittens on fire and crank up a mournful Sarah McLachlan tune so I can’t hear their piteous wails. If you are ever in a car with me, I will fart. Pork roast and Brussels sprouts. Ask Nikol. My fartistry is unparalleled.
They read about my sweaty nut sack the size of a circus tent and they think: I need some of that. All that matters is they think they know you, they think other people read you. They want you to write about them too. I fucked this chick once. There. That was about you. There are silverfish on my toilet. I spend every night pretending I’m a wizard on the computer. My friends are also alcoholic nerds and weirdos. I will cheat on you as soon as the opportunity arises. My cat will not like you.
You could write a blog that’s all racial slurs and descriptions of your own shit and if you posted every day for a year it would get you pussy. If enough other girls left comments. Jesus, what a world. Don’t stay in school, kids.