I hit my head. This was on Monday, Monday night. I went to a Memorial Day barbecue and drank moderately, but didn’t eat much. Plus I had smoked my remaining heroin the night before and put down 2 bottles of wine, again on not much food. I didn’t feel shaky at all but I don’t remember getting home, just waking up on my couch around 7am. The back of my right hand was all scratched up, a nail was hanging off, my back was all scraped, and I had a headache. Now it’s Friday and I still have a headache. There’s some wide patch of swelling on the back of my skull but I can’t see what it is because of my hair. Good. I didn’t lose any hair. Continue reading
A friend writes:
I’m glad Nikol told you to stop smoking heroin. I couldn’t sleep all night because I had a lot of things to say to you–over and over in my head that I couldn’t say
You are being really self destructive. I want you to stop right now. Stop fucking dirty whores in low places. Stop smoking heroin. Stop sharing anything you put near your mouth with homeless people. Stop walking around skid row in your panties where you are just stupid easy prey. Stop spending your already little resources on any of these things.
Stop saturating yourself with darkness, ugliness, depravity. This is not a moral objection–it’s that–honestly- your energy is changing. There is a garbage in your aura—I can feel it. You don’t sparkle with invisible magnetic light. You emanate a corpse-like quality while sleeping. I love you and I’m not trying to be harsh. You need stimulation that is love. Go camping with me. Go to nature alone. Take Nikol’s kids to the fucking theater. Go look at art with me– it can surprise you. Darkness is fine and I certainly have my share–but it’s out if proportion now– when you exaggerated my voice of concern in that blog it was an invitation for me to tell you. For you to be accountable to some force somewhere that will insist that you just stop it. You don’t have much time– life will fly by. Don’t mark every moment with the beast.
Please tell me you hear me– even if you tell me to fuck off. I have always dreamed that someone might care about me enough to say these things when I hurt myself. No one ever has or at least has never been brave enough to try. It’s not easy to do–but I just won’t have it–OK? Stop dying inside. Right now. Continue reading
I’m trying to masturbate to the redhead with the big titties from the Standard but the problem is, Julianne Moore has a movie coming out. So they interviewed her on NPR and I heard it and got her face stuck in my head. I get about three seconds of the redhead from the party before it becomes Julianne Moore’s pointy fucking Count Chocula face. Now you are cursed too. Go try to jerk off to a redhead and try not to think of Julianne Moore.
The redhead with the big titties wasn’t opening the door in room 413 and the party was winding down, so I admitted defeat and walked over to skid row to buy black tar heroin. The first guy I talked to just took my money and disappeared. He had handed me a garbage bag full of L.A. Kings T shirts as collateral, which I now own. Email me if you are extra large. Continue reading
She’s freaking out because I went down to Tijuana with El Chuco and fucked a bunch of street whores. Get tested, she tells me. Sent me an article where six per cent of them have HIV. Well, I like those odds. Plus, they’re fastidious about condom use. They’re fastidious about every fucking thing; blowjob is extra, getting them to take their god damn top off is extra. Otherwise they just awkwardly jerk you off until you have a half pipe with enough structural strength to get the jimmy on, and crouch on top of you in a full sweater set. They don’t want to look in your eyes. You have to hold their face to get a glimpse of what you assume will be despair, and it turns out they’re trying not to laugh. They’re all nineteen and they all have kids. My baby is six years old and he learn to play the guitar. Good, I tell her, good. Get him started this young and he’ll be great when he’s older. Que? I realize she only has one English sentence memorized to tell Americans. Why make it about your kid then. Continue reading
Astrid was trying to set me up with some girl she works with. Some cunt. I mean, maybe she’s not a cunt but she didn’t want to be set up with me, so, she’s a cunt. She’d been telling Astrid she likes “built” guys, and Astrid showed her a picture of me with my shirt off. And she said:
“Yeah, but he looks like he works out on purpose. I want a guy who’s just burly like he’s been chopping wood.”
Let me tell you something. Nobody looks what is now called “good” through normal activities. You have to work at it, for the sole purpose of vanity, like it’s a second fucking job. I was listening to an Opie and Anthony bit with Louis CK, which I now can’t find. They were talking about how every hot male movie star from the past would get laughed the fuck off the screen today if they took their shirt off. Charlton Heston. Steve McQueen. These men who had the “hot” body of their time would be flabby schlumps today. The standards of the male body have gone fucking nuts. Continue reading
I have private health insurance now. I have to go get a physical. Because my mom told me to, and plus I have a lump on my neck. I’m sure it’s just a swollen lymph node except I’m also sure it’s an octopus shaped tumor that’s already wrapped around my brain stem and I have seventeen minutes to live. Fine.
Getting the insurance was a god damn nightmare. The only time I’ve been to a doctor in the last five years was to get a cyst lanced on my calf. Blue Shield interrogated me like I was fucking Dzhokhar Tsarnaev about this. Was it a Plaximonious cyst? A Diophibenious cyst? Was any other treatment recommended? I don’t fucking remember dude, they stuck a needle in it and some pus came out. Who was the diagnosing physician? I don’t remember. It was an old black guy, looked kind of like Benson. I never went back to him for a follow up because he put the ball of my foot on his penis and he had an erection. While he was doing this he instructed the nurse to give me my next appointment for free. Continue reading
They mean those down the middle girls, those black Lulu Lemon pants girls, bone structure like one of those computer averages of a hundred college girl faces, white ipod earphones, white iphone, small dog but not quite at the level of small dog carried in a bag, talking about yoga, talking about if I get this pilot, if I get that pilot; they never get the pilot. They did a 3 episode arc playing the older sister on a Nick for Teens show maybe; they showed every member of the nationwide staff of Ponderosa Steakhouse how to sanitize the ranch dressing bin at the salad bar in an “industrial;” they may believe in astrology, they may actually be religious, they were the prettiest girl in Council Bluffs Iowa. Or they are the daughter of a model who famously advertised orange flavor Tic Tacs in the 80′s and the leathery head of television talent at William Morris whose face is like a Nazi propaganda poster but somehow she won the coin toss and is beautiful; her sister was not so lucky. The down the middle girl you think you can meet in yoga class but you can’t, you think you can meet in acting class but you can’t, you think you can meet her at a bar in the club at the dog park but it so thoroughly pointless to pursue her that you should think of her as bait for an ambush. She has a boyfriend, and she never does not have a boyfriend, and up to a certain age it’s gonna be the bartender at La Poubelle and after that it’s gonna be the aspiring head of television talent at William Morris who gets her a 7 out of 10 on The CW, or another actor, or some comedian who will break out at about the same level as maybe Adam Scott in 2 or 3 years; for now she has seen his Funny or Die video with the hundred thousand views or his quirky auto insurance commercial and that’s enough. If you’re the guy who can get these girls you know it already. If you don’t, you have no shot and never will. Tend bar or get famous.
Edit: I should acknowledge this video‘s existence because they also mention Lulu Lemon pants. I found it stupid but your mileage may vary.
Look at that. Fat floppy Mexican teenage ass in yoga pants. Some men would be appalled by this, but I want to know what that ass looks like naked.
My buddy who travels around the world fucking whores says at some point you get sick of fucking. You’re not horny and you don’t want to cum but you keep buying three dollar malnourished Cambodians anyway because you just want to see what your dick looks like going in a new one. You’re just curious.
That’s the deeper difference between women and men, I think. Not how horny one or the other is but that chimplike curiosity, or the lack of it. Women never see your ass and think what kind of panties is he wearing. They never summon Jedi concentration to envisage a black strip of thong fabric rubbing against a little puckered pink butthole. Does she have a hairy pussy, a waxed pussy, a shaved pussy, an innie, an outie; is it pink, is it dark– hard to guess; she has dark hair green eyes. Continue reading
Some time in the last five years every woman started bragging that she could squirt. If you hit my G spot with your fingers while I’m in a seated position and Venus is in the Third House of Capricorn… I will squirt all over the place. Look what a libertine I am, she says. And I know when I hear it exactly what to avoid. I hate doing laundry.
It’s bragging on their part, but also an invitation to do something you can brag about. Dude, she squirted all over the place, you will say, heralding your status as a sex god.
I used to care about being “good in bed.” About whether a woman was satisfied. About engaging in hours of elaborate foreplay and mood lighting and appropriate drugs and music. Back in college. Girls talk to each other about that stuff, men would say. They’re gonna hear that you’re a sex god and come get some of that too. Continue reading
There is no purpose to my life. No purpose to getting out of bed. Still. What was my purpose before? Pleasing assholes who can’t be pleased, who were mercurial and cruel, for barely enough money to live off of, and nothing to look forward to but a lifetime of climbing up from the bottom of the assholes to the middle of the assholes. Chasing the privilege of being scared of the assholes above you and contemptuous of the assholes beneath you. Seeing people under you as simpering, grating disposable strivers, dogs rolling over when hit with a stick. Fuck that. You think things suck now, remember how much they sucked before. You think going to work would stop you from being nuts but work drives you nuts, too. Just in a different way. This way I can go nuts on my own terms.
There is danger in solitude but there’s worse danger in the company of idiots. I’ve seen the movie industry, the TV industry, the book industry, what these things are really like. There is no place for me in this world. I’ve done some traveling, some writing, I’ve met some girls, made some friends. Seen the stars in the desert, whales breaching in the ocean. Attack ships on fire off the rings of whateverthefuck. But mostly it’s been drinking and jerking off in my sweaty apartment. Fine. It’s what I was born to do.