Good morning. Tuesday. Desperately want to not go to work. Don’t want to go to the gym. Don’t want to write. Just want free money and pussy. Just want to impregnate a hundred teens, have everyone else pay for my babies. Worship me as a god. I just want blimps with 800 foot LED pictures of my face a la Blade Runner humming in the airspace over schools telling kids their highest ambition should be to take my seed and clean my stove and be entombed alive in my pyramid. I just want my face stapled to Japanese junior high muff with the long straight jet black toilet brush textured pubes while I’m fed by enema. Never work never pay bills. I’d still find something to complain about. Continue reading
(Buy my book Hot Naked Tits.)
God will not get you any pussy. He cannot cure cancer. Or at least, He won’t. He won’t get your kids home safe; He won’t save your job; He will not affect your AIDS test. What He will do if you can get through to Him is remind you that it doesn’t matter. God is your insignificance. God is the knowledge that you’re already dead. The world moves on as if you were never there. One day it’ll be as though the world itself was never there. Your mistakes, less meaningful than the death of a liver fluke. Like your happiness. Continue reading
(Buy my book Hot Naked Tits.)
Have to fucking drive to spend Father’s Day with my stepdad. Have to go to my friend’s stupid bachelor party. Arranged by oafs. There will be no sex and no possibility of sex. Have to go to the Alcoholics Anonymous District GSR meeting. This is where… I don’t fucking know. Some joiner thing, you hear about issues pertaining to the worldwide organization. Discuss budgeting the district pancake breakfast. Hear a bunch of serial DUI hairspray drinkers dither over Robert’s Rules of Order. Report back to your group. My group of East LA heroin addicts could not give less of a fuck. Why did I agree to this. Have to give my cat a flea bath. Then vacuum up the fleas on the carpet. Then apply flea medicine. Any one of these things: a nightmare. All 3, get the fuck out of here.
Clean the fish tank. Do laundry. Wash every dish. Clean the bathtub, the sink, which were already “deep cleaned” by professionals. 9 days later, filthy. Thought I’d be an adult. Get the place in order. It’s a New Way of Life but I was right the first time: cleaning is useless. It doesn’t make me happier. Doesn’t even keep the landlady off my ass. There’s always something else to clean. I’d rather eat a six foot log of my own shit swarming with house centipedes and their gooey egg sacs than clean the toilet again. It’s a fucking woman’s job. I blame feminism. Continue reading
I put my best shit into a book. It’s called Hot Naked Tits. 3 bucks even on Amazon because $2.99 is a dirty lie. Kindle & Kindle apps only for now. If it does OK I’ll have some printed.
What can I say. Go fuckin buy it.
Agitated about this. Trying not to put significance on it. But it is significant. No getting around it. Then again– I can do this now because I’ve come around to not giving a shit. I don’t need the money. More people have already read my shit than are gonna buy the book. A fucking lot of people. I have succeeded. This is gravy. Continue reading
Would you ever consider posting your workout?
I’m built almost exactly like you – 6’1″, naturally skinny, and jacked up nose. My ball bag is well-proportioned however, but that is beside the point. Anyway, your physique is pretty much my endgame. I broke my shoulder recently and am just starting to feel well enough to get back to the fitness grind. I could use something different, because I plateau easily.
I got this question because I post shirtless twitter selfies. I do this because I grew up a flabby sack of shit and now I’m not. I use social media to beg other men to look at my naked body and love me. Because in my heart I hate myself.
Anyway– here’s how to look like those pictures: Continue reading
And now I’m shirtless. Trimmed my chest hair this morning. I feel like a naked pink baby. Can’t tell if I look good like this. Sitting Indian style. Folds of fat choked out by my belt. At 9% body fat this still happens. By the time I get rid of my last chub I’ll be so old I’ll just be skin. There’s another shirtless guy and I keep looking over thinking: does he look better than me?
A girl is checking me out. I guess that means I look good. Now I have this flash of fear. A burning house feeling. A girl looked at me; I better do something about it. This is it, Rocky. Your one shot. She looks away, then back. I don’t have the courage to maintain eye contact. I’d like to think it’s because I’m too mature to pick up girls. It’s because I’m chickenshit. So I look up and awkwardly half smile, making clear that I’m a small dicked nebbish whose seed is unworthy of her loins. Continue reading
Young girls only fuck at night, and I go to bed early. Before sleep I review my household budget. Murmur approvingly if I’ve saved on groceries. Electric usage dropped. Light touch with the AC. No cable bill but the internet I was paying 30 dollars for became 60 somehow, because I stayed with Time Warner Cable. Phone bill stayed 100 but only by fights and fights with Verizon. Bank fees successfully disputed but I could write an orchestral score of Bank of America hold music from memory. Continue reading