Maybe I’ll meet someone at the baby shower. This is the sort of shit my sponsor would tell me to look for women at. The sort of shit that normal men, men who talk like sitcom dialogue, would tell me to meet women at. “That sort of shit drives chicks NUTS, man,” says a balding potbellied actuary who has never fucked a woman after a baby shower. These will be normal girls, accomplished girls with a slight artistic bent who dress well and are friends of friends. That’s how Brown University Mini Cooper driving girls over 28 get their dick– friends introducing them. You should meet Jake, he hang glides and has a great job. My friends, all the girls they know are ugly. Or my friends who know hot girls never invite me places. Why would you.
The girls at the baby shower have boyfriends. Probably someone they met at a previous baby shower. Whatever, just go and congratulate these people on their stupid baby. I want to have kids some day but god help me I don’t want to have a stupid baby shower. I have to bring a stupid baby picture of myself so they can project it on the wall and play a guessing game. Which adult is which baby. God, they will think– what the fuck happened to his face. Wonder if I have one in a drawer somewhere. No, just some diaper fetish hooker’s business card.
image stolen from wikipedia
I hate my first ex who broke my heart. I hate the girl I lost my virginity to, for then telling me she had a boyfriend. I hate my mother for teaching me to respect women. I hate capitalism. Every job I ever had made me so I could have money to get women. Money isn’t so I can eat, sleep in a building, etc. It’s for women. Jobs aren’t even for money. You just have to have one because women ask: what do you do. Continue reading
Let’s assume I never get laid again as long as I live. What happens. I have no children. Fine. I die alone. Fine. Age slowly, rot; disease, brain turned to mush. I forget who or what I am. Trapped in a state nursing home. Surly orderlies snap my arthritic fingers to get my rings. Shitting myself, fed from a tube jammed in my throat, no one to hold my hand as the pain takes forever to kill me. Each instant containing lifetimes. OK– this exercise was supposed to end in “that doesn’t sound so bad.” Fuck.
Try to hang myself but my bony arthritic hands can’t tie a knot. Wallowing in weeping sores in a hospital bed; I roll out and try to aim my head at the floor but it only breaks my face, my pelvis, thick needles ripping out of my arms…. you lose your ability to move but not your ability to feel… Jesus Christ. A friend from the past shows up; I mutely plead to be smothered with a pillow. He just kicks me in the nuts.
Only way to avoid this is to have kids. Only way to make kids is to get some ass. Right back where we started. Continue reading
It never ends. Just so you know. You’re almost forty now. Yesterday you nearly cried as you unfriended a college girl on facebook.* She wasn’t returning your texts.** She had a toad face and she was a shitty poet but she was the last girl who will ever like you. You still masturbate ten times a day and then go out and look at girls like they’re the last clean water after the nukes hit. They look at you like you’re an insect. It never ends. Text a girl to confirm a date and only then does she tell you OMG*** I’m stuck at work! Her friend has a concert she forgot about, or some shit, and you still think: I will be stupid and awkward and ugly forever. Or if the planets line up and you get her back to your house, you come too fast. Still.
You’ll be a hundred twenty years old getting sad from dumb girls on OKCupid.**** You could be Emperor of the planet with a fifteen inch dick and you’d still be ugly in the mirror. You depend on woman for happiness and woman is a treacherous beast. But what else are you going to reach for. Job, money, a nice hairstyle– all bullshit. There’s nothing but girls and girls are cunts from having it too easy, until they get old and turn invisible. It’s still like this 20 years later. On the plus side you’re not bald.
* an internet rolodex
** email you send on your phone
*** “omigod” abbreviated. People often abbreviate in texts.
**** personal ads on the internet
image stolen from nymag.com
Here’s the whole fantasy. You are at the doctor’s office. Or at work. There is a pretty young woman there. That alone: fantastical. She is not looking at her phone, grunting cruelly at some other guy’s text. She does not have a boyfriend. She looks at you. You are not invisible to her. Not innately puke-inducing like a silverfish found in her panty drawer, hauling its unwieldy H.R. Giger chitin sperm casing between wispy twitchy legs and trailing a six inch smear of dust and hair from under the refrigerator. An attractive woman a) exists in the same place as you b) acknowledges you. c) does not recoil and cry out for some other guy, her boyfriend, to come kill you with a magazine you while she hides her eyes, and later she’ll tell the story of the ugly silverfish in her drawer to her colleagues, wail on facebook, make an accusing phone call to her landlady.
A pretty girl who does not have a boyfriend a) exists, and b) thinks things, and says them; she speaks and then you are having a two sided conversation. Not just you digging into the terrified cavernous emptiness of your adrenalized OH FUCK A PRETTY GIRL head for a perfect thing to say, voice cracking like Peter fucking Brady, flailing to drag it out past her first sentence when it becomes clear she never thinks about anything. Or if she does, it’s dogs, or astrology. She talks to you and wants to know you and plays you some nice music and you keep hanging out and between now and when she becomes your girlfriend none of the fifteen billion other men on Earth get in her face with a better proposition, and suddenly your texts go unreturned for long painful eons, and the desperate agony makes you repulsive to her like a gangrenous wound. To her, and all other women.
Every day you are a worm dying on the sidewalk after the rain. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl picks you up and tosses you back on the grass. She’ll leave you. That’s part of the trope. But all you needed was just once, a nice pretty girl talks to you somewhere. You got a better shot at crapping out the crown jewels.
image stolen from attentionmax.com
It’s come to this. No women and no beating off for seven days. Fuck my sponsor, I kept thinking. His awful advice about women. Got me in this hole in the first place. Too attached to this broad and now she’s fucking some guy. I ought to have been shredding internet girls this whole time. Don’t you understand, the ten years younger version of this same chick keeps sending me videos with a hairbrush in her ass. I’m internet famous, god dammit. Enough that a couple people want to fuck me. If junior high could see me now.
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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.
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