I’m five days early on this, but fuck it:
My name is Delicious Tacos, and I’m an alcoholic. My sobriety date is February 12th, 2014. I have a sponsor who has a sponsor. Welcome to the newcomers and congratulations to the chip takers.
Our stories disclose in a general way what we used to be like, what happened, and what we are like now. Continue reading
this is a picture of my cat
Throw out the Norco script, he tells me. Call me tomorrow. Fuck. I don’t want to. I don’t want to fucking cash it in, either– I’m in no pain really. But I don’t want to not have it if the gaping wound on my asshole flares up. What if it hurts again. It was a mistake to turn down the Vicodin the first time. I was in agony. I’m afraid.
Get off OKCupid, he said. You met a girl you like and these skanks will just fuck you up. The girl, who needs a fake name now– the girl was here. Told me she went on her date with her other stupid guy. She is using me for dick while she chases husband material. She’s a Chinese yuppie with a real job and what did you expect. He’s a prosperous Jewish chef whose parents have a nice house. He uses it as a test kitchen. That was their date, at his parents’ nice house with them gone. Him testing out a recipe. Breakfast for dinner.
… Continue reading
Here’s what an AA meeting is like.
First to get your question out of the way: yes there is pussy. Top shelf pussy. The pretty girl is there. The perfect girl. Distant and cold seeming in the way perfect girls are. But she’s not important. Because the girl one notch below her is there, too. That’s who catches your eye. She has to sit in a room once a week with that pretty girl. She is second best and she knows. Fucking happens when a girl is second best and she knows.
But there’s no way you’re getting anywhere near that girl. You’re all raw nerve and there’s a weasel gnawing at your heart. She can go fuck herself. Unless she has a superpower where she turns into a pint of Christian Brothers brandy, at the low cost per fucked up ratio of six ninety nine at Royale Junior Liquor Mart. Passed from behind three inches of Lucite by a smiling man from Calcutta like a fireman handing a mother a baby from a burning house. Fuck her. She won’t make you feel better. Only the sweet precious booze will make you feel better… sweet precious booze… get a hold of yourself man. Continue reading
I should have gone out with a five gram coke binge. Topped it off with some nasty skid row black tar. But this will have to do.
I’ve been sitting inside all day hung over. Reading stupid shit on the internet and listening to Opie and Anthony. Masturbating to small penis humiliation videos. I have work to do, important work. Big real estate project and a bunch of writing stuff. I need the money. I am too hung over. Continue reading
image stolen from tv-reviewed.com
Here’s the good news. In December I didn’t drink for five days in a row. I did not hallucinate bristly worms chewing out of my flesh. I did not start spasming and twitching. No one had to break my teeth with scissors and jam a wooden spoon handle down my throat to pin my squirming tongue. It takes more than five years of binge drinking every day for these things to happen, apparently. Physically I felt fine.
Here’s the bad news. I could not speak to other human beings at night. I did not write literature filled with deep human truths. I did not wake with a brighter view of the world. I filled the hours watching Mythbusters on Netflix. Jamie and Adam build a car that explodes for some reason. Kari Grant and Tori tackle whether bees are really infuriated by… something, I don’t know. I kept falling asleep. Continue reading
image stolen from quantumleap-alsplace.com
I woke up and I was taking her from behind like a savage. She was black, dark black. Tattoos. I popped into consciousness out of blackness and my dick was pushing into her tight pussy and she was moaning. Eat your heart out, Quantum Leap.
She had flaked on our date. I showed up at the bar on time. Ten minutes later got the text that she forgot. Before that another girl “had her car towed” 20 minutes before our date. Before that a Manic Pixie Dream Girl emailed me 15 minutes before our date: her friends were throwing her a surprise party. But she forgot to put the “o” in “.com” so I showed up and sat there forever like a jerkoff. Manic Pixie Dream Cunt. Continue reading
image stolen from vosizneias.com
Yesterday was gonna be the day I stopped drinking. But I got stuck in traffic. Tanker truck caught on fire on the 60 freeway. It was carrying liquid hydrogen. Hindenburg. All lanes closed in both directions.
I don’t take the 60 freeway, but everyone who does jumped on my freeway of choice, the 10 East. It was my day to stop drinking. For the first hour I took it. Stuck with the plan. But I’d been driving all day. It got dark on the road. The radio just kept telling me about the horrible traffic conditions I was in, every channel. Defeatist messages. Folks, it’s gonna be bad out there for a while. As we’ve been reporting the 60 is closed. Of course you have your alternate routes, the 10 and the 210. But those are stacked up now too from downtown past Azusa. There’s a ripple effect going on here folks. The 605 and 710 are a sea of red. The 101 is stop and go through downtown past Hollywood. And the 5 is on fire, the commuters have begun torching their cars and eating passengers’ flesh. Trees blackened. No life left in the hills except one sinister looking cactus. Starved crows circling. If you’re an alcoholic, you’re gonna want to drink extra liquor tonight to power through the sensations you’re gonna be feeling for the next several hours. I am speaking directly to you, Delicious Tacos, the announcer said. You are an idiot for wanting to stop drinking. Why would you torture yourself further. Think of that first drink. The one that makes this all go away. Continue reading