image stolen from cafepress.com
Look at you, they tell me. Look at you getting your shit together. Doesn’t it feel good.
Doesn’t it feel good to pay your bills. Finally open the overstuffed mailbox that has stood so long for your irresponsibility. Take out 11 pounds of flyers for the Mexican meat market. CMYK newsprint pictures of a flayed sheep’s head. 69 cents a pound. Fair price but the place smells like a mass grave; there are flies. Leaf through each page of sheep’s heads and weird spiky fruits and economy pack off brand diapers in case a warrant for your death got trapped in there, a letter from your dying father, your car registration, the bill for the overdue registration from your old car with a threatening letter saying the state will garnish your wages. Thing’s been in a junkyard for 3 years. Doesn’t it feel good to do that. To clip your toenails regularly. Wash your dishes clean the fish tank have a stilted 15 minute call with your mother, your father, your uncle. How’s the job going, they ask. How’s the job, the bills, the money, the job the job the job. Doesn’t it feel good to show up to work, to be of service. To make financial amends with your credit card company. With the hospital that charged 28 grand to lance a boil. To track down your creditors, call them, to sit on hold with the DMV, with traffic court. Call between the hours of 8:30 and 11:30 Monday through Wednesday. If you call at 8:29 please call back during telephone hours. If you call at 8:30:005 I’m sorry there are too many people in the queue please try back at a later time. If you manage to dial the last digit at 8:29:57 and have the phone company route your call in exactly three seconds, not 3.001, not 2.999– it took eight days of trying for that to happen. Just to get in the hold queue. Just to be on hold for 41 minutes and then get told they can’t handle this kind of issue on the phone sir, sir, at this time, sir, I do apologize at this moment I am unable to help with your query, sir, I do apologize the system won’t allow it, you need to mail the proof of ownership to blah blah blah. You don’t have the proof of ownership. You will just have to pay to register this old car forever. Fine. Doesn’t it feel good to have shit handled- no. If I’ve paid a bill I have the shit handled once. Before I didn’t have it handled at all. In both cases I still have to handle it constantly, forever, until I die. Nothing has changed. Continue reading
image stolen from dailycuteness.com
No! Never enough about my ass. Typing this standing up. The pain spread to my balls. They’re a pair of brass doorknobs clattering on each other. I can stand so my balls don’t touch my thighs. I can avoid sitting. But I cannot prevent my balls from having contact with each other. Pissing is OK, until I get to the last “drain it all the way” squirt. You want to flex your taint, muscle out the last few drops. This requires your asshole. Everything requires your asshole. And now every nerve command stops on its way there. A bite of pain flares up. My body says are you sure. I learned how to cough without clenching my ass. How to clear my throat. Do you know if your toothbrush hits your gums too far back, you clench your ass? No? Shatter a beer bottle and stick in in your ass and then brush your teeth if you don’t believe me.
A fart is like a knife. A shit is not so bad, interestingly. Except my ass– it’s like an old movie where a cop is trying to talk to a hysterical woman and has to smack her. It’s so traumatized it just shuts down. And I can’t push. That will make the hemorrhoid pop out. You have to be patient. Just let it drop. The prescription strength stool softener does nothing. My stools were already pillow soft.
I can either sit in the bath or lay face first on the couch. Fine. What would I have done anyway. I have no job. But it hurts, it hurts. I should have taken the Vicodin script. Trying to be Dudley fucking Do-right over here with my sobriety. Nobody’s giving me a prize for this shit. I have a couple jobs lined up. I’m not following up on them, because of my ass. I will lose this woman over my ass. My life maybe.
Oh well. They made more.
image of renowned thespian james “the cuntcrusher” cromwell stolen from theghostsinourmachine.com
I wasn’t supposed to fuck her but I did. And it was amazing, frankly. Five foot one 22 year old Japanese girl. Art student. Those details have no place in the story but fuck you, I’m bragging. Just typing about her gives me an erection.
I told my sponsor I wouldn’t be a pig about it. This would be a healthy get to know you. I would be open about my feelings and focus on giving the person a good night, rather than piggishly chewing up meaningless ass. Why are you even going, he said. I thought you really liked this other girl. You’re right, I said. You’re absolutely right. I totally hear you. This is about learning to relate to other human beings in sobriety. I will stay in touch with my higher power and keep an open heart, man. I promise. The thought bubble over my head said “pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy.” Continue reading
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. Continue reading
I was at the beach on Memorial Day. Just for a minute– I had to work. I’d asked my boss if we had the day off. He did not respond. This meant: what do you think. I’m sure he was infuriated. But I left the office to look at underage bikini tits.
A seagull had found a watermelon rind. He was trying to swallow it whole. Fifteen times he picked it up. Huge wedge that must have weighed a pound. Cocked his head back and did that neck shake they do to get food down their gullet. Finally he dropped it. Figured out that only the pink shit was good and began pecking. Right on, I thought. But he’d dropped it right where the waves were lapping the shore; it kept getting picked up and washed away. The water would move it into the path of another seagull. Seagull 1 would have to chase it. Fight for it. He was a tough fucker, and committed– he would always win. Nip at it for a second before the next wave.
So as long as I don’t need sex, sleep or human contact, not drinking is gonna go fine. As long as my nights are just: couch. Tubes running fluids in and out of my mouth, dick and ass. Endless loop of Mythbusters on Netflix. As long as I can handle days pacing my apartment alone muttering half sentences, snarling in the mirror… sitting down to write but the words move too fast. This, and one hour a night sitting in a church basement. Me and the other weirdos glaring at two big vinyl posters of platitudes. Everything will be fine.
Went to my second meeting last night. Had a date after. Her house. She made burritos. We fucked. She was on top. There is a tapestry hanging over her bed, with an Aztec theme. My mind left. Journeyed in between the threads making up a slope-headed peasant carrying a water jar. I traveled through irregularities in the textured plaster ceiling. They were mountains on Mars, or some snow planet. Does this not feel good to you honey, she asked. Well yeah, it feels good on my penis. But the rest of me– my entire soul feels like you ripped off a scab too soon. There was not newly formed skin underneath but raw bloody twitching flesh. My whole being is made up of raw skinless meat and a cold wind is blowing over it. Except for my dick. My dick feels great. Continue reading
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