image stolen from thomas “the pussycrusher” kinkade
It’s the light that gets me. Dark at 4:30. I just want to drink and sleep. You try to go outside but it’s cold and all the girls walking around have big sweaters on. No more yoga pants. Why go outside if you won’t see a fully defined pubic mound, the mathematically perfect curve of an ass crack jiggling. What’s the point.
Drink and sleep. Your hormones crash. Go to the gym and your strength has fallen off a cliff. Creaky joints. Every movement grates like bone on bone. I believe I tore my rotator cuff. This is another way of saying: my shoulder hurts. “Rotator cuff” is the only piece of shoulder anatomy I know the name of. Therefore I tore my rotator cuff. No heavy bench press, no heavy military. I now have the upper body of Barbie without the tits. It hurts when I hold the bar to dead lift. It hurts when I support the bar to squat. It hurts when I do a pullup. Continue reading
My dad is 65, was diagnosed with bone cancer 15 years ago and given six months to live. Since his childhood he drank like a fish, smoked a pack a day, and used hard drugs. He is still living. Came to visit me. He’s beat up. Can barely walk up the hill to my apartment. His mind is slipping. He speaks slowly. Moves slowly.
But he is still alive. I introduced him to a couple of the women in my life. His mind is slipping, but he still knows nice eyes, nice skin, nice ass, nice tits. I took him to Joshua Tree. He’d never seen it. Hard to show that motherfucker something he’d not seen in this country. He’s been all over. But this was new. He had trouble walking. Had trouble speaking. But every new bird, every new rock, every new flower blew his mind. When night fell, every new star– there is so much to see in this life. So much to know.
Of course, the old man was also deeply interested in the 19 year old Hong Kong chick walking on our hiking trail. Son, you better make a move on that. She’s interested. Tell her to take your picture.
You will lose your mind, your body, your dick– whatever you value. But life still has things to show you. Life isn’t done with you. I get why people kill themselves. I get it, but they’re wrong. Seeing a god damn road runner drinking from a mud puddle changes my life every time. And it changed the life of a 65 year old man who I’d thought had seen everything. You could live for a thousand years and never run out of wonderful shit.
I get why people kill themselves. I contemplate it every day. Still. Don’t. It’s an arrogant thing to do. It’s saying: I know all the secrets. Bullshit. You never know. Tomorrow a seagull could steal a kid’s ice cream cone in front of you and you’ll laugh harder and better than you ever have in your life.
Suggestion: One super-power you could have for 24 hours. What would it be, and why? What would you do with it? etc.
I remember my buddy, my best friend from like 13 to 15, telling me a fantasy he had. He had just seen Superman 2. He would jerk off thinking that he was General Zod. A guy from another planet walking around in a black pleather jumpsuit who could just point at anyone he wanted and demand that they fuck him. Or else he would throw a car at their grandmother or something.
And I laughed because I jerked off to the exact same thing. Being General Zod. Wearing the same black getup and walking the Earth with my sinister British accent, and pointing at girls, like, my classmates on the field hockey field, and just beckoning them to the side of some building where they’d have to bend over and I’d penetrate them on the mulch and rhododendrons. Probably the school groundskeeper would mutter and shake his head, having to rerake the peat moss he’d just smoothed over that morning.
There’s something so erotic about that idea. I know, it’s rape, but let’s admit that we all jerk off to rape. And this is not crudely pinning some drunk college girl’s wrists behind her head on a mildewy fraternity basement couch. You picture the girl’s loins getting all juicy just out of fear and awe of you. Wanting you in spite of herself. Her own traitor womb commanding her to take your seed. Allison from algebra not looking at you as the dork you were, but as some kind of god.
Later he revealed he was gay and I was actually the person getting bent over in his reverie. The whole thing became really weird. So, I choose invisibility.
I’m worried that I’m fat now. Because Nikol is dating a guy who is a professional bicycle racer. He must maintain an absolutely lean physique at all times, burns 8000 calories a day or something. This guy has abs, real abs, not a mushy six pack with a little pooch at the bottom like mine. When you talk about an ideal male body you’re talking about a guy whose stomach doesn’t fold when he’s sitting down. You’re talking about 5 per cent body fat. Michael Phelps. You’re talking about people who have that for a living. Merely flirting with single digits body fat isn’t enough. Looking good lit from the side with high contrast lamps while flexing down isn’t enough. You gotta look like the cover of Men’s Health even when there’s Vaseline on the lens and you’re in the fetal position with all muscles relaxed. So that is my new fitness goal. I’d been lifting a lot; put on a few pounds of muscle. Now it’s time to drain the remaining fat so you can see striations. Tendons. Fat blue veins snaking over my forearms.
Physically this can be done, but it’s the psychology that gets you. It burns out some fuse that tells you how much to eat. You are constantly hungry as shit and constantly just thinking don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat, 16 waking hours per day. The smells coming from restaurants become something primal, like the musk of a cow’s cunt to a rutting bull. Don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat and it’s one of those things– you fuck up once and suddenly you’ve thrown down 1600 calories worth of ice cream. If you use cardio machines you begin to appreciate the horror that is calorie math. You can be on a Stairmaster at a full sprint for an hour, it won’t burn off food that takes you two minutes to put down. Continue reading
I jerked off to some horse porn and then went to the coffee shop. Got the table by the counter where you can look at girls’ asses as they order. They try to cover up, they sit down quick, but they have to stand up there to order coffee so you have at least ten seconds of just drilling lasers into their beautiful asses in unholy tight jeans. Thinking: I just want to spread open that sweaty little crack and suck a Taco Bell shit out of her asshole.
I get that men need to be horny. Otherwise no one would ever fuck and we’d just die out. But this seems excessive. Like a cruel joke. I could operate at about a tenth of my current level and still blast enough sperm into people to populate a fucking continent. You are born so god damn horny and you are then dropped in a world where you have to fight for pussy against impossible odds.
There was an article, about sea otters. They found out sea otters were raping and murdering baby seals. It was the unlaid males– ten per cent of otter men fuck one hundred per cent of the women, and the other ninety per cent still have a hard on. So they drown baby seals performing the otter courtship ritual on them. They bite the seal on the nose and then hold it underwater, which an adult female otter can handle apparently. Not the seal; they drown. Still, the otter fucks the dead seal for weeks, again and again and again. Until the smell and the sea worms get to be too much. There’s an old joke about marriage in there somewhere. Continue reading
I desperately want to have sex with Miss Teen Delaware. Even though she’s the kind of girl who wrecks the one good thing in her life for five hundred bucks from a guy who’s too dumb to turn off the air conditioner when the camera’s rolling. Five hundred bucks and a free Days Inn towel. She could be a murderer, but she is three months past her eighteenth birthday with what they call a “neotenous” face. This is the nonthreatening latinate way of saying all hot women look like little kids. What does this tell you. Girls are six and that’s the prettiest they’re ever gonna be. No pedo. Continue reading
In case you give a shit, here is WordPress’ “Year In Review” page for this web site. Many wonderful memories.
My favorite parts are the world map that reveals that people have looked at this blog from a buttload of countries, and that the biggest search term that isn’t the name of the site is “fake rape sex.” Also popular were “underage cock” and “pubescent tits.”
I was also amused by revisiting my longest comments section. I miss that guy “pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn.” I wonder where he went. His comments were better than the fucking blog.
I do not plan on taking the blog in a new direction in 2013. Nor do I plan on taking my life in a new direction. I plan on doing the exact same shit and typing about it into the exact same free WordPress “Bueno” format, which was the first one offered when I set up the page. But I’ll probably get cancer or be crippled in a car accident or something, or go nuts from being unemployed, so, there will be new material.
Anyway. Thank you all for coming, seriously.
I love the big fantasy, that people who work for Google are playing ping pong and napping in giant bean bag chairs all day at the Googleplex. That the whole company is just a giant rumpus room in a split level ranch home from 1972. Florence Henderson will bring pigs in blankets around and there’s plenty of Sunny D in the fridge. In fact it has to be a giant taint smelling veal pen where unlaid nerds are just staring glassy-eyed at computers and coding for sixteen hours at a stretch. Or managing people who are coding, figuring out how to extract the most amount of coding out of them for the least amount of money. And there are no women, despite, I’m sure, their efforts to bend over backwards to try to recruit as many women as possible to code out of a sense of social justice or whateverthefuck. There are no women for them to hire. Women aren’t interested in coding. And it’s because coding sucks. Women are right not to be interested in coding. In math, engineering, science, the so-called STEM fields– all those things are fucking excruciating and women are smart to stay the fuck away from them and the flabby Aspergian gnomes who populate those fields.
But if I were a recruiter, I would save a bunch of dough on the ping pong tables and face massages and just hire five decent looking chicks. Every coder in the world would flock there.
Yeah, but fuck Winnie Cooper. Winnie always looked a little alien, or like a Hapsburg or something. Her skull was shaped like a Lego person’s. And she always seemed uptight.