Note: I no longer have Irritable Bowel Syndrome, thank fucking God:
I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
It’s a stupid fucking disease to have because:
A) It makes me swell up like a pregnant sow and shit hot acid and
B) It has an impossibly stupid name with a you’re-just-cranky connotation that compounds the embarassment of having a chronic medical condition that revolves around shit. That makes you take shits of bizarre consistencies at highly inappropriate times and renders said shit-taking just ridiculously painful.
It’s actually pretty much gone now but back when I had it I didn’t know what it was. That made it worse. Doctors talked about cancer, colitis, Krohn’s– the type of stuff where they have to slice out your colon and your asshole, drill a hole in your side and sew in a plastic pipe attached to a shitbag that you have to empty by hand. What effect this would have on my already limited ability to get laid I dared not speculate. But for months I would just at random have horrible clawing pains in my belly, and then some appallingly discolored substance would fly out of my ass on very short notice and with no regard for my surroundings. I shat myself at work, for instance, several times. Once in a meeting. I shat myself at home and on my bike. You’d think that with repitition any experience becomes normal but shitting oneself in front of one’s peers is an exception.
And I have mouth tumors, these little translucent blobs, little polyps on my inner lip that appear, become painful, tumesce, and then the pain goes away but the thing– what I can only assume is a precancerous growth– does not. There are like four of them now. I don’t give a shit if I die but I know that if I did have cancer it would be cancer of the face, where they have to chop off my bottom lip and replace it with blister-smooth un-color-matched tissue from my thigh or something, or pig-fetus skin…
Or cancer of the dick. Or the ass. Cancer that would either ruin my last days of life in the most hideous possible way or some kind of embarrassing cancer where the shame of telling about it would outweigh any mileage I’d get from telling people I’m dying.
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 have a hernia, I think. And my nuts hurt, too… or rather that muscle right under my nuts, the cremaster. I was about to take a piss at the office; there are three urinals– two normal ones and one short midget one– and I go for the one in the corner, and this agent walks in, short guy… and instead of going for the midget urinal on the other side like etiquette would dictate he has to go for the middle one right next to me. And normally I don’t get stage fright but this fucker looked at me just as I was taking my dick out of my shorts and made this sort of meaningful eye contact– not a homo thing but this weird kind of contemplative, philosophical look, and I had to really ponder this guy’s inchoate preverbal communication for a second while I was also very conscious of the smooth warm flesh of my penis in the other hand… and it weirded me out. Continue reading
My binge eating has transcended the point where it brings on euphoria. Now I eat until I experience gut-spliting pain. I eat beyond my physical capacity to eat. Like 10 slices of pound cake at a buffet. 35 chocolate chip cookies at a pilot premiere. And if I need to take a break, if I can’t possibly take in any more, I reach for the booze. Liquid food.
My life is full of buffets now. I can’t take drugs anymore and nobody will fuck me. Grinding my body down to a thin wick on the stairmaster has burned out some central fuse that tells people when to stop eating and I’m left with infinite hunger, a bottomless need to cram anything at all– especially sweet foods– into a hole that will never be filled. Eating is better than fucking, better than masturbating, better than having some great intellectual insight, better than writing or guitar playing or anything constructive. Eating and its horrible guilt, and its corresponding self-flagellatory hours shredding my tendons and bones on the stairmaster… this awful cycle of regret and further self-debasement that happens because I have no girlfriend and very few friends and so quite simply nothing else to do with my time.
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