Sticky: Finally, Some Good News

29 Oct

I’m writing a serialized novel called Finally, Some Good News. Here are the chapters so far:

  1. What Do You Do
  2. Nest Egg
  3. Second Date
  4. No Exit
  5. The Zombie Zone
  6. Angel of the Morning
  7. Belinda
  8. Power Achiever
  9. I Just Keep Losing
  10. The Sherman Oaks Outdoorsman
  11. Aswang
  12. Festival of Savings
  13. The Fisherman’s Daughter
  14. Ghost Wedding
  15. Talk to Her for Me
  16. Father of the Sword
  17. The Big One
  18. Industrial Society and Its Future
  19. Red Dawn
  20. Evaluation

Moving Diary

18 Nov
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Stock photo

Maybe today will be the best day of my life but somehow I don’t fucking think so. Have to move. Have to move to a new place I now hate and I just want to fucking relax. Even typing this is a distraction from what I should be doing. The activity I like least in the entire world. Which will be my entire day. And my tomorrow. And my tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. While working. While waiting–while having to follow up on my cover art, my copy edits– OK. I accept that God wants me to be miserable. He wants me to not finish the book. Not sell it. Whatever I want, is what God does not want. God does not want my ass to not hurt. God does not want my eye not to rot. My penis to not fall off. God wants my landlady, who is evil, to have money and happiness, while I languish in obscurity. God wants me to move. Continue reading

This Is What I Believe

10 Oct

Work is living death. “Job creators” are murderers. America is Satan’s agent in the world, spreading the Antichrist gospel of “work ethic.” It must be annihilated. This is what I believe.

Trump, while fun when irritating people, is just one more Satanic agent pushing jobs, jobs, jobs. Entrepreneurs and hustlers are not human beings. They are demons. Their purpose is to propagate evil.

America treats these malformed creatures as gods. Steve Jobs was an archdemon whose food was human suffering. Bill Gates and his succubus wife Melinda save African children only to one day channel them into psychic pain extractors (schools) to devour powerful waves of anguish. Elon Musk, a retarded boy seduced by a Zulu witch and given unholy powers. Warren Buffett feasts on flagellated fetus fear, wallows in Wall Street worship from his Luciferian temple of false modesty built to defile an Omaha burial ground. Archdevil Maruk Z’huqq-h’r-Bhurrgh, an infernal superorganism psychically conjoined to perpetually starving harpy sisters, innovated the ultimate demonic feeding trough of advertising-based agony. A book that eats faces.

All entrepreneurs and businesspeople, as well as high-level executives and professionals, are not people. Rather they are eager servants of Hell who gorge on human pain. Vomit it mama bird style, in paroxysms of quasi-sexual greed ecstasy, back in the gullet of their beloved master, Satan. There are no exceptions. This is just my opinion.

The Tight Underwear

12 Sep

soprano boxers 2

My new underwear is too tight. If I wear the waistband low it will cut off my femoral arteries. Or the veins that crawl over my hipbones. It will cut off my blood supply. I’ll have to get limbs amputated. I will be retarded. Continue reading

Beat the Dog

11 Aug

vick hat

I was on the beach. I was “scouting locations” for my book. I needed a house. It belongs to a specific person, I can’t say who. And I read that she lived in this beach town. So I went there and I walked down and down and down the beach past where young teens shivered in the waist high water with their ass cracks devouring their bikini bottoms. To the rich people part of the beach where old men sitting in folding camping chairs glare at you because in their mind this beach is private. And I glared back because I’d be happy to humiliate them in front of their wives and daughters. Stun them with one right cross then drag them out in the surf and hold their head down for about 45 seconds. Let them up for one desperate breath. Then back down again. Repeat repeat repeat. The wife can’t leave to run back in the vacation rental and get the phone to call the cops but she’s not quite prepared for violence either, genetically. She has to puzzle out a right-size piece of driftwood to swing at me with. I got doxed so I won’t tell you what happens to her in this story. She better hope a fuckin dolphin saves her. Continue reading

Tomorrow

1 Aug

I’ll work. I’ll use Microsoft Office to do what a rich guy tells me to do. Leave late. I’ll go to the Vons and see what’s on sale. Maybe a pork chop. Maybe some Brussels sprouts. I need milk. I’ll go home instead of the gym because I’m out of dress shirts. Need to do laundry. On the drive talk to my AA sponsee. Tell him what my AA sponsor said to say which is about the definition of insanity. Get home cook the pork chop put the clothes in the wash do deadlifts with the barbell I bought. Take the shirts out of the washer and hang them to drip dry. Put the underwear and socks and towels in the dryer. Go to an AA meeting. Get my clothes out of the dryer. I will not fold them. She will not text me. I will not open the door and it’s her.

Get Fucked

28 Jul

young george

I need to post something while the stupid fucking kid stomps around upstairs. And I’m horny. And I drank too much coffee, or too little– I gotta order a new ball hair trimmer. Another binder for my DVDs. Never watch but can’t throw them away. Repair the fish tank. To do this, drain the fish tank. I don’t even know where the leak is. Fuck, I don’t want to get rid of it. I want a fish tank. My recurring – fuck — did I yell audibly. Did I yell audibly at them stomping around. And they fucking heard me. Well they stopped stomping. They stomp and it drives me crazy. And I yell. And they stop. And I feel guilty. You can’t fucking win. Continue reading

Plenty of Fish

28 Jun

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There’s no reason to spend a millisecond with another person who isn’t fucking me. And yet I do. I’ll see my parents. Then go to this stupid AA meeting. My father’s dead yet I still go to at least 50 parental birthday dinners a year. Because it’s Mother’s Day Father’s Day This Day That Day– some fucking wedding, Jesus Christ. There’s no Fuck Me Day, no Mexican Teen Pussy Day, Xbox Day. All chit chatting with old people until you look down and your own hands are old. Continue reading