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But Enough about My Ass

17 Jun
image stolen from dailycuteness.com

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.

Plus One

2 Jun
image of renowned thespian james "the cuntcrusher" cromwell stolen from theghostsinourmachine.com

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

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. Continue reading

Jonathan Livingston Dumbass

27 May

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.
Continue reading

Sobriety Journal 2-14-14

14 Feb

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

Seasonal Affective Disorder

27 Nov
image stolen from thomas "the pussycrusher" kinkade

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

Don’t Kill Yourself

27 Aug

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.

Reader Mailbag: Superpower

13 Jun

zod1

“Justin” writes:

Suggestion: One super-power you could have for 24 hours. What would it be, and why? What would you do with it? etc.

Well.

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.

Male Body Image

28 Mar

mens-health-magazine

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

The Lives of Beasts

21 Mar

sea otter smirking

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

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