Archive | April, 2012

Diary 2/19/11: Turning 35

25 Apr


Yeah, it’s my birthday.  I am thirty five years old.  This feels like a momentous age for some reason.  I am thinking like a woman,  because, for an unmarried woman, this age is some kind of shitstorm where your last viable egg is now gone and you just have a 9/10th’s empty gumball machine with only a couple Trig Palins left rattling around.  But still, I am single. I am single with no plausible hope of not being single.  I do not know even one person, out of the dozens and dozens of reasonably attractive women whom I know- I do not know even one person I would consider dating who would consider dating me.

And now I’m thirty five.  So you figure, if I meet someone tomorrow, we hit it off, we get married after a year, we spend two years traveling and hanging out and somehow saving money, and then we have kids, that puts me at thirty fucking eight when my first child is born.  And if I want to have more kids, I’ll be into my forties.  My ball sack will be full of Trig Palins.  And this is assuming that I meet someone tomorrow, even though I have been trying, trying hard, to meet someone for ten fucking years.  I have been doing everything.   But ultimately I would have to completely reengineer my life to meet a woman and make it stick.  I would have to put myself in a position where women are around me naturally. Because girls don’t want you; they don’t come looking for you; they don’t even like it if you come looking for them. You have to be forced to be in a place and your presence there has to be in no way motivated by there being girls there and they have to slowly come to like you over time.
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Alpaca Farming

24 Apr

Yeah, just stay away from alpacas, though. Because I know they have those ads late at night, between “BUY GOLD NOW” and “they’ll bring the diabeedus kits right to yer home,” and they show a little blonde boy frolicking with the angelic baby alpaca, you know. But it ain’t like that. They’re fucking surly, they bite, and their natural defense is to spit a hardened wad of mucous at your eyes or chest at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Also, the alpaca costs like 30 grand and it produces ten pounds of wool per year, which retails for $17 per pound. You are trapped breeding more and more thirty thousand dollar alpacas to sell to the next sucker, forever.

Protected: Friend in the Hospital

23 Apr

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Reader Mailbag: Do You Actually Like Women?

23 Apr

“Jess” asks:

Also – do you actually like women? It seems like you like pretty girls and getting off, but I can’t tell if you actually like women.

I mean, sometimes.

Sometimes I like them, sometimes I don’t like them. Or rather, I like some women and not other women. I end up hanging out with tons of women these days, to the point where I am now like the annoying woman who says she can’t stand other women and all her friends are men. Because she can’t stand all the “drama,” etc.

So I like women. But then I don’t get laid for a good like six weeks and I start to hate women. If I see a woman talking to another man in a bar, and she seems interested in what he’s saying, I will hate that woman. I will hate that woman for falling for the same bullshit that that dude is pulling that he pulls on every other girl, that every other dude who is successful with women pulls, and I cannot pull, and I will resent her for not abandoning that successful charming dude and somehow recognizing, like, pheromonally, the true inner beauty of the marginally attractive drunk man at the other end of the bar scowling at her. And then later she will probably fucking complain to some guy like me about how that guy cheated on her or didn’t call her and I will sullenly think what the fuck did you expect? I will feel like I am the guy who has to soak up some girl’s tears while some other guy is soaking up that ass. I will begin to identify myself as the “nice guy” who doesn’t get laid because of some deeper inherent virtue than all those sleazy guys who are actually out there getting laid. I become exactly what surly Jezebel commenters call a NiceGuy™– a whiny self-pitying douche who morphs into a quasi-date rapist at the first glimpse of pussy.
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Dear Roxanne: Seeking a Second Job

22 Apr

OK seriously- why are you doing this? Is there any universe in which you do not land one of the worst jobs in America? Is there any way this gets you enough money to help with your debt in any meaningful way instead of merely making you so miserable that you are useless at your actual job, which you attended this expensive grad school to get? You are going to be “expressing” dogs’ anal glands at the pet groomer. You are going to be chastised by the most vigilant janitorial supervisor in the world for leaving a chunk of excrement in the executive washroom toilet which said supervisor discovered checking under the bowl rim with a dentist’s mirror. You are going to be hauling the giant bag of the day’s fetuses out to the biohazard dumpster behind the late term abortion clinic, to the jeers and taunts of protesters, and the abortion clinic will have been too cheap to even spring for an opaque bag. It will be a clear plastic bag which will on some days have a particularly horrible mutilated fetus part that will put you off your lunch, or, occasionally, a relatively intact fetus head that seems to make pleading eye contact with you from behind the plastic, and its forlorn mommy-why-did-you-kill-me look will haunt you forever. Something like this will happen. There is no one who knows you at all who doubts for one second that the second job you get will be something horrible, debasing, and destructive to all positive aspects of your life, because that is just the kind of shit that happens to you.

Don’t do it.

The Value of Work

21 Apr

When I was fourteen my mom made me get a job.  She was really hell bent on this, as soon as you can start working legally, you start working.  I don’t mean to make her sound mean—this was perfectly normal.  I imagine someone had made her start working the literal second it was legal as well.  On the east coast, at least 20 years ago, there wasn’t an underclass of immigrants doing all the gigs that teenagers could do.  You’re fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, you get a job. I wish it were like that out here; you’d see more fourteen year old girls working retail.

Anyway, she made me get a job.  And again, not to be mean, and not to make me give her the money or pay rent to live in my own childhood home or any shit like that– I got to keep the money.  But just to teach me some lesson about the value of work. Or some other, more jaded lesson.  Something about how all work sucks and is useless and horrible and the value that you actually get out of your labor isn’t shit compared to what some rich property owning guy makes, some guy who ninety nine times out of one hundred inherited some position in society where it would be easy to have these things.  To own a McDonald’s franchise or whatever. Continue reading

Protected: Old News: Screening Sex Offenders

20 Apr

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