Woman in the next building opened her blinds this morning. T shirt and underwear. I was out smoking. She looked out at the morning sun kissing the trees. Surveyed the world for a moment. I was in the parking lot shooting lasers into her crotch. Scanning the slit of her skinny cunt like the Terminator, for later use. She looked down and saw my Kubrick stare. Neglected cigarette dangling. Recoiled in horror. Continue reading
I got it from a cheating ex, they say. In the 50′s girls would say they broke their hymen horseback riding. They fell on their cunt jumping over a fence. I got it from a cheating ex. Look, I know you got it from a third rate bass player in a bar toilet. I don’t give a shit. You think if I had a pussy I wouldn’t be fucking everything on two legs? Good for you. But that’s the one lie. Otherwise they’re real up front. Listen, I have herpes. I get outbreaks about once a year. When I get sick. Sometimes it kicks up when I shave. Yes, it hurts. Anyway, would you ever sleep with me?
Sorry. Fuck no. Continue reading
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.
Driving to work today. Not taking the train. This means my future wife would have been on the train. A beautiful woman, in a good mood, primed for conversation. Ready to make the first move. What are you typing, she would ask. I would have been working on my book. Certainly not some bullshit blog post about some bullshit topic and every other word is “fuck” and “cunt.” No. I am writing a novel, I would have said. She would be impressed. Let’s get off in El Monte, she’d say. Take my hand and we’ll run up into the mountains. Forget about your job. We’ll find some place with flowers and just fuck forever.
Now she’s sitting next to an empty seat, or some hobo. We will both die alone.
You’re not gonna get throat cancer from eating pussy and you’re not gonna get dick cancer from HPV. You’re not gonna get AIDS or syphilis or herpes. That thing on your dick is an inflamed hair follicle. Trust me; I know. I have made my body an experiment, fucking the entire internet unprotected on a first OKCupid date and then living through the paranoid terrors of a slightly itchy penis the next morning. It’s all bullshit and your doctor knows it as soon as you walk in the door. Heterosexual men are basically immune to STD’s. You couldn’t get one if you tried. Continue reading
Various readers write:
I’m concerned about your head injury. I’m not normally the kind of person who freaks out over this shit, but you really need to see a doctor. You could die or be retarded, etc.
As always, thank you for your sweet concern. But it’s nothing. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m only cognitively impaired insofar as I’m distracted by pain. It’s just a knot on the head. It’s on the right side right on top of my occipital lobe so if there were brain damage it would be evident in my eyesight. Left side. Because of the optic chiasm– the nerves that read from your eyes cross over in an X and run to the back of your head, for some reason. Meaning your left eye transmits to the back right side of your head. See? I remember all that shit from class, that was almost 20 years ago. No brain damaged person can say shit like “optic chiasm.” I bet it’s even called that because it’s shaped like the Greek letter “chi.” See? I remember the Greek alphabet. Continue reading
The new one is a professional swimmer. He has raced with Michael Phelps, he must have to say as soon as every single person asks about Michael Phelps. He can swim slightly faster in a straight line than virtually anyone else in the world, except Michael Phelps. Also, many creatures with no frontal cortex can beat him easily. But he is connected to something shown on television. I bet guys who worked for Bernie Madoff got pussy when he hit the news. Just be something they’ve heard of.
Before that it was a guy who worked for Brad Pitt.* She liked him. He had access to Brad Pitt’s luxury box at Dodger Stadium and she took her kids and they all met Brad Pitt. Before that it was some director. Before that, some DJ. Before that a porn star, whom I envied until I saw what he had to fuck in his porns. I hope they paid him well. Before that it was a comedian. Then an editor who had money somehow and had just moved out from the South where he was cutting cartoons; before that a guy who had his own theatre production company. A guy who had worked at the White House as the Undersecretary of Something. The old guys with white hair had money, always. That was nice. Nice dinners, a present for the boy. Continue reading
I was supposed to go to Mexico with my buddy El Chuco. Go to Tijuana and fuck some whores, drink, do some drugs. Look at little kids selling chicle, goats on ropes, whateverthefuck. Local color. The girls at the whorehouses are all leathery but the streetwalkers, you luck out once in a while. Stumble into someone who is only beginning a long journey of human agony. Pay her twenty bucks for a throw. Her timidity with your dick makes you feel bad but the boner is a monster that has to be fed.
But he got into some legal trouble. I don’t know what, yet, except it’s a restraining order and he’s gotta get rid of seven grand worth of guns. Going to transfer them into my name and I’ll have to sell them. I hope someone tries to rob me when they’re in my house. Continue reading
There is a woman talking about using a juice cleanse to cure bronchitis. She is attractive, but I didn’t need to tell you that. Ugly women know enough not to talk about a juice cleanse. Not to talk about astrology. Only a beautiful girl can go through 22 years of life talking about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer, how the doctors all know the real score; all their fancy chemo drugs are just a scam to keep you sick and Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know the truth because freshly harvested organic carrots don’t make them any money. Only a beautiful girl can go through decades of saying shit like this without being told to shut the fuck up. This girl, if you saw her– she hasn’t received so much as a cocked eyebrow over anything since she was twelve. The schlub she’s talking to has such a stink of the unlaid about him that she could start denying the Holocaust and he would be like “wow… yeah. Interesting.” Now she’s talking about her best friend in Brooklyn, some art project this friend has going. My friend is like, Amanda, you need to come out and help with the publicity, but it would have been weird staying there. Her name is Amanda.
I am going to build a high school guidance counselor’s office. Every motivational poster, every prop, everything. I’m going to put on a cardigan and tie.
Every so often I’m going to call you in. I will be looking forward to this bright spot in my week. You are one of our most promising students— not like the rest of these pregnant, glue-sniffing fuckups. You’re smart and pleasant and goddamn can you put a sentence together. Maybe you’ll be a journalist, or a lawyer or something. Or a congresswoman!
You will walk in and I will not be able to hide the gleefully expectant look on my face as I ask what you’ve been up to lately.
After you leave, I will sob quietly into my travel mug for hours.