Image stolen from some stock footage web site
I came back out to the park even though it is god damn motherfucking freezing, because there are two girls doing yoga, in yoga pants, on the grass. I came out so I could look at their asses.
They are going to look over here and see me looking. Fortunately this laptop gives me legitimacy. I have some ostensible purpose other than leering at their asses in their yoga pants. That’s right– stand on one foot, grab the other foot, lean forward. You are bumbling. You are going to fall over. Your expression of physical vulnerability is delightful. Also, I commend you for your commitment to flexibility and health. Your yoga pants are being consumed by your ass crack. Your buttocks are meaty and robust. You are in fact slightly heavier than one would expect for someone so committed to yoga. This is an asset. You are the kind of girl with whom one thinks he has a shot. By retaining a slight layer of padding, you are not pricing yourself out of the market. I think that if I met you through a friend I would talk to you and charm you and you would end up drunk on red wine in my filthy apartment cozying up and watching The Dark Crystal on my Xbox before I ate you out on the carpet and got rug burns on my knees. If you were thinner I’d assume you wanted someone with money. Continue reading
I now hate Halloween after blowing my lunch hour buying a hair dryer for my Warren Beatty/ SHAMPOO costume and getting embroiled in a pre-Halloween day line at the Goodwill like it was 1939 and people were trying to get out of fucking Czechoslovakia, and it was caused by an elderly woman at the front disputing the price of a pair of underwear. No joke. Fighting for it like it was the last pair of high waisted rayon panties on earth and similarly her two dollars represented the very last American currency in existence. Or something. I should have just walked up and given her a buck, but you know, fuck helping people. Or I should have left. But I couldn’t risk it. I might never again have had an opportunity to purchase so perfect a replica of Warren Beatty’s hair dryer so cheaply again. When the world hands you an opportunity like that you have to fight for it, with every fiber of your being.
Good morning. The fucking street cleaner barreling up the street, diesel engine the size of a rhinoceros with absolutely no precautions taken to dampen the sound. Displacing the 3 leaves that have fallen and the single Von’s receipt and Payday wrapper. Moving these things over slightly. Spraying down a thin layer of water, not enough to carry the dirt into the drain. Just enough to slightly rearrange the dirt into new patterns, like drizzle on your dirty windshield.
Street cleaning does not clean the street. It exists so that every residential thoroughfare can be half blocked off to parking once a week, so the city can collect tickets. It is 8:15; the city collects tickets from 8 to 10, and the street cleaner has gone by. But if I went and parked on the side of the street blocked off for the street cleaner now, would they spare me a ticket? Of course not. Letter of the law.
Those Dove ads– with the fat chicks standing around in their panties… the one all the way on the right, with the chin-length brown hair, kind of tan. She’s got this cute round face that makes her look about fourteen years old, this cute little nubbin nose… oh god, do Iwant to fuck that pig… that sloppy fat whore… her fat looks all smooth and soft, not all cellulitey and grainy like real fat chicks. Like there’s muscle underneath it. Man, I just want to cum in that hot little underage sow and make her have my baby…
The rest of them are disgusting.
Fucking Kate. That is a permaflake. “Sorry, I’m gonna have to be lame and take a raincheck! (frowny face).” Permaflake! Except- she included a frowny face…. I keep looking at it. That frowny face means she is frowning to not be able to hang out with me, right? Despite not having a counterproposal of any kind and not saying anything in the intervening day and waiting until prompted by my text to say something—maybe she still likes me, right? Maybe maybe maybe. Continue reading
This chick never texted me back. Sara. Beautiful girl. We had a great date. Ended up at her house; we had a Grateful Dead singalong for like 4 hours. I for one had a really good time. And we texted back and forth, and then I sent one kind of stupid text message, and it was over. Never heard back from her. Never will. Maybe I should have called her. But no. You can’t send two unrequited texts and then call her. Maybe I should have called her in the first place. Instead of texting her. Maybe maybe maybe. Every little thing. Maybe it’s something I fucked up in some way. And I would have gotten to have sex with her. But I also would have had to listen to, and pretend to like, her horrible horrible retarded music. Maybe it’s nothing to do with what I did. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. She works 3 jobs, two of which are at night, and has to spend her days flying around on wires into the mouth of a giant puppet of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, while singing. Every day I have to drive by a billboard of the goddamn Creature from the Black Lagoon and be reminded of her. There is nothing I can do about it now. I can’t text her. Anything I do would just debase myself, make it worse. This is the same shit that happened with Erin. I’m obsessed with it. The only thing that could possibly make me happy in the entire world would be if she were to text me back. Or If I met another, equally hot chick, who didn’t suck as much. Continue reading
I threw a bucket of water on those dogs again this morning. They were barking, or at least the one was. They have been starting at 6:45 AM for several days. Their bark volume is exactly high enough to still be audible over every fan in the house turned up to the maximum setting and placed in my bedroom, along with the loud guttural motor from the bathroom blower. The next move is to turn on the AC on “fan” mode so no cold air is blowing from it. In total this creates about the same amount of white noise as standing next to a jet engine. And still, still, you can hear the fucking dog: bark bark bark, bark bark bark.
So I got up this morning and filled a five gallon bucket with cold water and went to the bottom of my driveway and listened directionally so I could tell which of the 12,000 unruly dogs on my block was the one doing the barking. I surmised that it was the border collie two houses down who either stands on his high porch bark bark barking or, if a person is walking by, runs down the stairs with his little white terrier friend and maniacally circles over and over again while bark bark barking and occasionally trying to bite through the gate. I stood in front of his house; he and his buddy came down, and I dumped the water on them. Continue reading
I hope this is my last STD news until the warts show up. Negative for gonorrhea and chlamydia.
Ooh— you little motherfucker. New job, new bathroom, new stage fright story. This disease makes me piss every fifteen minutes. My prostate is inflamed and it gets all swollen with urgency at these times. And so I go in there to take my piss and there’s a guy— nerdy, nebbishy looking guy, obviously a screenwriter, and again, I go in, give him a cursory head-nod, and he gives a subdued “hi.” Nothing wrong yet. Except now I’m about to piss and he starts going to town over at the sink, riding the fucking soap pump like it was a slot machine and activating— they have those stupid laser-activated sinks, and they give no hot water, and only this stingy one-second burst— and he’s waving his hands in front of it again and again. And then he grabs about fifteen c-fold paper-towels out of the dispenser and rubs them over every hand surface with great vigor, and then REPEATS the process— so at this point it’s clear that he’s an obsessive-compulsive. Continue reading
Non-gonoccocal urethritis. The parking ticket of STD’s. Or if gonorrhea is the parking ticket of STD’s , this is the jaywalking ticket of STD’s— a good metaphor because you don’t even have to get in the car. I got it from a blowjob. FROM A BLOWJOB! When I was about to bone this chick the first time I was about 75% hard and she blew me , briefly, so I could get the condom on properly. There are ironies there I don’t even want to get into. But that’s how you get “NGU,” I guess. It’s a bacterial infection– ok, wait— who gets an STD FROM A FUCKING BLOWJOB? Continue reading
NOTE: This is from 2006. Do not read this, if you have had unprotected sex with me in the last six years, and think that I gave you some STD. I did not.
Gonorrhea, Gonorrhea, Gonorrhea
Actually I think it might be chlamydia— the discharge is transparent, not all chunky and creamy and green— but whatever the fuck it is, it’s getting worse by the second. Chlamydia chlamydia chlamydia. Papilloma… these are really nice sounding words. I want to go into Planned Parenthood tomorrow and say “hello, i’d like to be tested for” (thick italian accent) ”Papilllllomaa… Gonnorrrrhea…” anyway, at least I had to get fucked to get it. The chick was hot. She was Filipina, which is an ethnicity I’d never fucked before, although I hate how people are all creepy about that. I hate guys who are “into Asian girls…” it’s like the white chicks who only date black guys. There’s always something wrong with them. But anyway, I have gonorrhea! Gonorrhea gonorrhea gonorrhea! Continue reading