Instrument of Thy Will

2 Jun
pic unrelated

pic unrelated

You know that feeling. Where you drank every day for 20 years. By the end you were blacking out a couple times a week, alone. You were yelling at cops, getting in fights with women– Lesbians duke it out; the straight chicks just bite you. That feeling where you had a solid 20 years of that going on. You accomplished nothing in your career. Your net worth is negative ten thousand dollars, despite your fancy schools. Your car is 35 years old. It cost $1200 on craigslist. The master brake cylinder’s about to go; the thing barely stops. Breather hose is disconnected and just spits blue smoke. The engine doesn’t turn off when you kill the ignition. You have to rev it up, floor it for about ten seconds to push all the diesel out of the fuel line. You have to do this getting home at 10:30 PM in your parking lot that is just under the window of the building next door, where a nice woman has a new baby. Floor your loud as fuck poison fume spewing 1970’s diesel engine late under her window, gas creeps up into the vent and fries the little fucker’s brain. He’ll look at his schoolwork ten years from now and the letters won’t form words, they’ll just dance. No money no job no wife no kids no art no nothing. You have done nothing with your life. Maybe you kept the cat alive but come on, a monkey could raise a cat. Even the cat would be better off without you.

Drank every day for 20 years, every 6 weeks or so you’d get cocaine, jabber meaninglessly at douchebag guys and girls who would never fuck you or if they would you couldn’t get a boner. Spend six hours when they go home sucking up your last bumps while making artificial pussies and jerking it to horse porn. Needless to say you were a pig with women. They hated you when it mattered and now you hate them and you just fuck your way through them like a machine. Internet dating was invented right when something in you cracked. Like a weirdo getting his first gun. From there it was just tear em up. You can’t talk to women for shit in real life but the internet, fuck man. They loved you, a lot of them. Why. Probably because you’re tall. No, no, see– one of the things you have to get over is hating yourself. Hating women, hating other people, hating yourself. You are worthy of love. God made you and God only makes things perfect. Well OK. You were worthy of love and got it. You didn’t return it and you only made their lives worse for knowing you. You took them on a date and got them drunk like a machine and then fucked them and never spoke to them again.

Pussy was just another kind of booze. You needed it to not feel ugly. To hell with the pain in the ass thing it’s attached to. You ought to go to the AA for sexaholics, too, you thought. Your home AA venue also serves as a Sex and Love Addicts room. Their vinyl 12 step poster is like the AA one, except it’s diagnostic. 1) We admitted that we used intimacy for (blah blah blah, some bad reason). A list of symptoms, kind of like “you might be a redneck if.” And if you compulsively use OKCupid for unprotected sex with strangers, no intention of seeing them again despite your “looking for” listing saying only “long term dating…” you might just happen to be a redneck.

You wanted to change. You stopped drinking. Which meant you stopped fucking. God became part of your life. Fuck off, He’s helpful. And you went three months and finally you thought: it’s time to date again. How do I do that without hurting someone, you asked.

Go have fun on your date, He said.

You went. She was cool. You were open and human with her. And she with you. And yes, you fucked her. Yes, you made her stand over the cat bowl on the porch on the off chance that your 70 year old neighbor would look out his window. He’s a sweet man and deserves something to look at. But it wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t bad. You were open and honest and vulnerable and it felt good, it felt good… this part of you was God-given too. It didn’t have to be hurtful. Mechanical.

And you saw her again, you spent the night in her clean girl house rolling around watching movies and having filthy unprotected sex. Talking in between. You liked her. Lingered in the morning; it was a hot day, she lives on a hill, you cracked the front of her neighbor’s new Audi backing up with the Benz’s creaky brakes… you were horrified, but it was OK. She didn’t care. Still gave you a long kiss goodbye. You knew you had something. You went home feeling possibility. You could see yourself with her. Dear Lord, thank you for letting me feel this thing even one more time.

You got home. Let out the cat. Headed to the toilet to take your shit of triumph. Ass burbling fire after the 16 oz sustainably harvested coffee with notes of raspberry you drank with her at the yuppie cafe, while the other dorks looked on jealous. Flip the lid, sit, drop your purple American Apparel briefs.

There is a beef gravy shart in them.

You sharted. You fucking sharted. And you didn’t know. Which means you don’t know when. Which means:

You might have also sharted in her bed.

You slept naked.

You might have sharted in her bed.

The worst is the not knowing. If I’d sharted for sure I could recover. But if I didn’t… I mean… you can’t text somebody:

Hey, did I shart in your bed? If so, I’m really sorry!

She has a dog. It sleeps under the covers. When you fuck and she’s on top the dog grinds its twat on your shinbone. Maybe she’ll think it was the dog. Except if the dog ever sharted you better god damn believe she wouldn’t let it snuggle up in her howeverthefuckmany thread count real job girl sheets. Fuck. You did. You must have. You shat in her bed. With the world the way it is, how else could it be.

You know that feeling when you’re a pig but you find God and open your heart and meet a nice girl and you get one more chance and when you do, when you do… you literally shit the bed.

Eloi… Eloi…

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11 Responses to “Instrument of Thy Will”

  1. Anonymous June 2, 2014 at 11:07 am #

    Gold. Best post in a while.

  2. L. Roy Aiken June 2, 2014 at 1:42 pm #

    I’ll admit, selfish bastard that I am, I feared you’d end up like Alice Cooper in the mid-1970s. Once he gave up drinking, he went from a terrifying monster who scared the fuck out of my parents to an affable old Republican uncle who sometimes makes funny songs.

    In your case, sobriety has given you a new edge. I’m glad you’re turning your life around — sometimes you have to hit the reset button, and fuck the haters — but it’s good to see you’ve found a new level of writing, too. Keep this up and your next 20 years ought to be really entertaining. Best (or worst) of all, you’ll remember everything!

  3. Bruce Banner June 2, 2014 at 2:48 pm #

    Don’t worry. Those sharts will make her fall wildly in love with you. Women are funny.

  4. Alexander June 2, 2014 at 4:57 pm #

    DT:

    You can find a free, detailed list of fiction markets here:

    http://thegrinder.diabolicalplots.com/

    I believe you can also use that site to keep track of all your submissions, in case you’re too lazy to start a spreadsheet.

    You should be writing and submitting.

  5. Atlanta Man June 2, 2014 at 7:28 pm #

    Thank you for this.

  6. Anony-fucking-mous June 2, 2014 at 10:24 pm #

    Your ability to completely flip the direction of any prose in half a heartbeat is one of your greatest talents. It’s the kind of twistability that M. Night ShitsOnEverything can only dream of. A+

  7. shitty mitty June 3, 2014 at 4:37 am #

    Well, you’re funny as shit.

  8. Anonymous June 8, 2014 at 5:37 pm #

    Hey, its better than boring her…

  9. Anonymous June 24, 2014 at 1:04 pm #

    Glad you’re back

  10. Girl July 27, 2014 at 7:36 pm #

    Before the Internet happened I had to look all over the Bible to find the original of the phrase “My god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me?” It was for a short story I was writing called “Satan’s Face Seen in Breakfast Cereal.” I’ve never seen it since, until now.

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  1. Instrument of Thy Will | Manosphere.com - June 2, 2014

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