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Weekend Journal: Will You Still Love Me

14 Sep

stacie 3

On Saturday we handed out MISSING flyers for Nikol’s son who ran away. Hundred and six degrees in the valley; heat-angry people think you’re trying to sell them something when you walk up and say excuse me. I’m a bad person. An old woman stiffarmed me and said “sorry.” I yelled after her: you’ll die alone, you leathery old cunt. Not interested, said a fat bald man. Like no one will ever be interested in you, you fat disgusting bald sack of shit. I’m in the right here, I reasoned. I’m trying to find a lost child for Christ’s sake. No one will take a swing at me because I’m tall and I lift weights a lot. Continue reading

Weekend Journal: The Heart Touching Magic of Cocaine Hydrochloride

1 Feb
image stolen from quantumleap-alsplace.com

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

Weekend Journal: Blackout

25 Jan
image stolen from fansided.com

image stolen from fansided.com

As the sun came up there was a clipped muttering somewhere. Like a tut tut tut. Woke me up. It had been a demon’s voice in my dreams, tut tut tutting me. Tut tut tut you’re going to hell. I was on the couch in my clothes, still blind drunk. Tut tut tut– what the fuck was it.

It was a chicken. One of my neighbors got a chicken. Fucking thing was up at dawn screaming at the sun. Have to kill the chicken, I thought. No one living in the first world should be awakened by a chicken. I imagined climbing his cinder block wall. Dropping over the other side into his cement courtyard with the potted herbs. Snapping the beast’s neck. Vivid. I could feel the rough concrete on my palms. The bird kicking. I slipped back into dreams.

My face hurt. I had to be told what happened in the morning. I tried to fuck my friend’s girl and he almost beat me up. He was on top of me on the couch with his thumbs pressed in my eyes. Saying I’m going to kill you. Don’t say another word, if you say another word I’m going to hurt you. The girl, begging him to calm down. Continue reading

Weekend Journal: Mexico City Part 1

16 Sep
with soldiers

I acknowledge that I am a jerkoff

Fuck man. I’m fucking tired. I don’t want to clean my house. I don’t want to pay my bills. I don’t want to fucking go to the grocery store and fucking buy dinner and fucking cook dinner, but, all those things have to be done. I was awake at 2:30 LA time this morning, trying to get a taxi to the Mexico City airport. If we missed our plane we were fucked. They were closing down the airport for the National Air Show. If the Mexican Air Force is on par with the rest of the country’s infrastructure it will be three Cessnas held together with duct tape. Rusted out fuel tanks will give way. The fiery wreckage will immolate large sections of the cheek-to-jowl crowd. Many will die but the celebration will continue. Continue reading

Weekend Journal: Crimes and Misdemeanors

8 Sep

bicycle thief

There are ants in the bathroom sink. I keep jerking off into it. Trying to hold on to the images from porn. Trying not to get distracted by the nightmare Dali tableau of the ants, swarms and swarms of them picking at the crust of my toothpaste. When I nut the first drop makes them scatter, furiously. Then I wash my jizz down the drain and with it their colony. They quickly repopulate.

It’s too fucking hot and I’m hung over as shit and my bike got stolen. I need to call my parents. Tell my mom I’m going to Mexico City. I’ve been holding it back because I don’t want her to freak out. She’ll think I’m gonna get my head cut off, shipped back to her in a cooler. No, it’s fine, I’ll say. I was just in Tijuana, it’s not like you read about. What were you doing there? Uh… Continue reading

Weekend Journal: Can’t Live With ‘Em, Can’t Live Without ‘Em

7 Jul

tarzana-sign

This is what I remember. I went back in to tell the crazy black chick with the fake blue eyes: come on, just give us a fucking ride two exits up the freeway. You promised you would drive us back, I said. I knew the whole time she would Welsh but I thought she could be reasoned with. She could not. She got angry, very angry, she was yelling at me to get the fuck out of the house and take that crazy ass bitch with you and I said all right, all right. And I’m pretty sure she popped me one. I have no marks on me but I remember laughing and telling her that if she was going to hit me she ought to put some body into it. When in fact it hurt, she had put plenty of body into it. She was African American and a “top” type Lesbian so even though she was a chick, you know, demographically she had the ability to punch. I went back out to the parking lot to find you and go. Figured we would split a cab, which would have taken up all the money I had left, but, we had to get out of there.

I went back to the parking lot to find you and you were gone. You had been lying on your face in an empty parking space against a cinder block wall one minute and then you just disappeared. The crazy black chick with the vampire-y blue contact lenses followed me out, yelling, motherfucker this, motherfucker that, nigga you better get the FUCK out of here RIGHT NOW and I was like, look, let me wait till Astrid comes back. We gotta get a cab. She kept yelling. So I thought: fuck it. I asked her to open the gate so I could go. She wouldn’t open the gate. She was calling the cops. She was telling them I was menacing her and wouldn’t leave when in fact I was prevented from leaving by the giant electric metal gate to the parking lot, which had no way of being opened without some remote of hers. Yeah, he has a plaid shirt on, she was saying into the phone. I was pleased I wasn’t wearing my distinctive blazer and pocket square or lavender cardigan. I imagined blending seamlessly into a sea of plaid shirts. Eventually I just jumped the wall. Continue reading

Weekend Journal 5-26-13: This Is All Your Fault Megan

26 May
image stolen from occupyobservations.blogspot.com

image stolen from occupyobservations.blogspot.com

I’m trying to masturbate to the redhead with the big titties from the Standard but the problem is, Julianne Moore has a movie coming out. So they interviewed her on NPR and I heard it and got her face stuck in my head. I get about three seconds of the redhead from the party before it becomes Julianne Moore’s pointy fucking Count Chocula face. Now you are cursed too. Go try to jerk off to a redhead and try not to think of Julianne Moore.

The redhead with the big titties wasn’t opening the door in room 413 and the party was winding down, so I admitted defeat and walked over to skid row to buy black tar heroin. The first guy I talked to just took my money and disappeared. He had handed me a garbage bag full of L.A. Kings T shirts as collateral, which I now own. Email me if you are extra large. Continue reading

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