Now I need pussy again. Even though it hasn’t been long. Barely even fucked the last girl; she got scared and asked me to stop. I reminded her of some past trauma. But it went in. It counts. What was that, six weeks. Already I’m ugly in the mirror. Two weeks off from the gym and my body is pasty and fat. Objectively there’s maybe a three per cent difference. If I’d just torn off a new piece of young ass I’d look within striking distance of Ryan Reynolds, soft bathroom light be damned. Six weeks.
I’m acutely aware of my lack of money, my lack of job prospects, the filth in my house. Cat hair, grease and spiderwebs everywhere. Boxes of old bills and DMV letters I don’t need but can’t be assed to sort through. Fish tank with long tufts of kelly green algae blowing in the filter current. Edges of the cat’s litter box spattered with shit. Taint smelling underwear hanging off furniture like Tibetan prayer flags. When you stop getting laid this shit starts to matter. Not that I’m going to do anything about it.
Everything I write seems stupid to me. I edit it to death. Cut and cut and cut; still it’s no good, don’t post it. It’s too toadying to the manosphere. It’s too alienating to the manosphere. You ape Bukowski too much, too little. Something is always wrong with it. I can’t function without pussy. Without pussy I am a talentless sewer mutant. If I continue like this it will nag me more and more. Become recursive. You don’t get pussy so you hate yourself so you can’t get pussy. I got maybe a week before I escalate to Thirst Defcon 3.
I have attempted to get pussy. New Years. But an ex showed up. When she walked in I thought: why did I break up with her. Then we talked and I remembered. Still. I tried, hard. Debased myself. What seemed like an easy prospect fucked me; I spent too much time on it. Who cares, I tried to think. You knew you weren’t gonna get laid. This wasn’t even new pussy, but it was far enough past it would have counted. But one atom of thirst fucks you. It shows on you like a boil.
Tried at a house party on Friday. Cute girls, but they were all comedians. We were sitting around the fire cracking jokes. I was “on.” But my “on” is about 65 per cent of a comedian’s “on” and there were men there too. Pros. This is the thing with Los Angeles. You can look down on a hack comic dying to get a five or less on Two and a Half Men. But that guy is a trained professional. You are the nerd with a brown belt from the mall dojo and he’s the guy who gets in two bar fights a week. A woman comic spends her whole lives around these people. Marginally funny isn’t going to cut it. You console yourself. Think: these people ultimately have no art, contribute nothing that lasts. Change no lives. Not like me, author of half-funny fucked out online dating messages that someone will engrave on a monument somewhere. Look upon my copypastas, ye mighty, and despair.
You go out, you talk to girls with your thirst. You hear the word “boyfriend” and recoil like a dog hit with a bucket of ice water. Women: if you have a boyfriend, just…die. If you won’t fuck me, why do you exist. You look at facebook. See a thumbnail. Who is that, she’s cute. Oh yeah, that girl who… wait, “so and so is in a relationship with…” Dead. I could have a filter that changes “So and so is in a relationship with to “so and so was pulped by a garbage truck.” “So and so caught a stray bullet in a bus stop drive by. The doctors did their best, but.”
You think you need a high concept romantic comedy experiment. Like: don’t fuck for a year. Spend that time becoming a better human being. Men do shit like this to scam themselves. If I say “don’t fuck for a year” I just won’t try to fuck for a year. Girls will sense this, get hot for me. I’ll say “don’t fuck” and spend the year getting laid like Nushawn Williams. Doesn’t work. If you don’t try there are no women to observe you not trying. Even getting to where pussy might be is trying. You have to try like a motherfucker.
Whatever, it won’t last. I’ll make my OKC profile one tenth less of a “fuck you” art project. Send two emails, get one back. Set drinks in two days. All this will be over around11PM Thursday. The bills won’t bother me anymore. My dirty underwear will be cute when the cat curls up in it. My desperation will be like a flu that passed. We live in easy times. Pain can’t catch you as long as there’s pussy Amazon. Some men play World of Warcraft.