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Diary: I’ll Die Alone if I Don’t Get Famous

16 Sep


Two girls left me in two days. I’ll die alone if I don’t get famous.

I need more women fans. More women fans under 30. More women fans under 30 who live in Los Angeles. I need more women fans under 30 in Los Angeles who are Asian. The only race I stay attracted to. Even then just barely. Eight dates, I don’t want to fuck them anymore. Continue reading

I’d Rather Watch Hitler Rape My Mom Than Date a Woman My Own Age

12 Sep


I have a date tonight. 38 years old. Look at her profile. Half Asian with excellent bone structure. But who cares. What am I gonna do, have kids with her? One quarter Asian kids with half a good looking face? She’s 38. Biologically useless. Fucking her, as productive as sticking my dick in a log. Plus she’s banged 10,000 indie rock bassists no doubt. Has herpes and the bad kind of HPV. The log it is then. Continue reading

Diary: My Brief Abstinence Career

3 Sep
image stolen from

image stolen from


What the fuck is a guy in a band going to tell me about pussy. I need a sponsor who’s also a pathetic nebbish. Someone who only barely gets laid through excruciating toil.

Went to an SLAA meeting last night. You think it’s gonna be like AA. Where you hear a guy saying woke up from a blackout in upside down in my flipped minivan… felt something warm in my face… it was my son’s blood… I crawled to the liquor store… and everyone laughs. SLAA is a bunch of weird old Lesbians talking about getting molested. 3 young Mexican bottoms with baby deer eyes always on the verge of weeping. One old bear who does, admittedly, have great stories about banging sailors on meth. But it’s all weepy shit. I shared. I hate this organization, I said. No jerking off and no looking at girls. I want sharia law to be imposed but I’d find away to jerk off to a woman’s eyebrows. In conclusion: fuck all of you; this group just makes makes me miserable. No one laughed.

********** Continue reading


29 Aug
Northern shovelers. image stolen from

Northern shovelers. image stolen from

Here is the problem. I truly am addicted to this shit. To sex, to the possibility of sex, to validation from women. Alcohol made me feel good while I was drinking it. But women kept me feeling human for weeks. Months. If I’ve not fucked recently, I’m not a person. I’m not worth being alive.

Once I could get a new one every three months and be OK. Then a week. Now the day after I fuck a woman I might like– if she gets a weird on text the next day I think I’m an ugly freak and no one could ever love me. Fantasize about my lonely childless death. Or while my dick was in one girl, I’d feel desperate about other girls. Continue reading

I Am Not Allowed to Think about Hot Young Pussy

28 Aug

image stolen from

I joined Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Day three of no jerking off. No looking at Tinder, OKCupid. No looking at women with lust in my heart. This means: no looking at women. No fantasizing. Which means: do not think about Lara. Our date to the bird sanctuary. Had to cancel. No thinking about her hair her tits her eyes her face. The curve of her jawline and her neck. Her voice. She likes me. I like her. Kind of a lot. She described me as “a staggeringly talented writer.” We share the exact same opinion on the one important thing.

Don’t think about the taste of her hairy pussy sweating in the summer heat. Her squatting over my face while her AC groans and does not cool the room. No writing about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. Sex is the story. There is nothing else on Earth. Birds, flowers, sunsets: go fuck yourself. Money work friends family sobriety service to other human beings: blow it out your ass. I wake up every morning so I can feel hot salty chowder spurt out of my dick. Preferably into the smelly cooch of an emotionally disturbed teen. Every other moment is just labor to support the meat sac that I am so it can fulfill this purpose. Why have a thoroughbred if you just keep it in the barn. Continue reading

Second Date Idea

9 Jul
image stolen from

image stolen from

I want to chain you to a pipe. Stop taking birth control. Move into my sweaty apartment. Let go of your possessions. Your pets. I’ll ladle water down your gullet. Sop up your waste. You’ll live off fruits I baby bird down your throat as I impregnate you again and again. Build a bunker underground for our hundreds of offspring. With whom I’ll also breed. Continue reading

William Randolph Thirst

29 Jun


(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)

No matter how much pussy I get I’m Elliott Rodger. Couples on the street make me sick. Tepid Tinder response means I’m a chromosome damaged power line baby. My mom should sue a drug company. No response means I don’t exist.

Had a date yesterday. I liked her. She’s pretty. Likes the same books as me. She too is a writer toiling in obscurity. Worried about losing her voice in work, worried about time. We lock in on the same sentences in stories. I want a relationship. So I did what my sponsor told me: don’t make a move. Instead I said: I’d like to see you again. Peter Brady voice crack. She said yes but I think she was lying. At the end I gave her a peck on the bottom lip. We agreed to go to dinner this week. I felt like I had no dick. Continue reading


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