Archive | June, 2012

More Stage Fright

24 Jun

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

Male Bulimia Diary 2005: Binge Eating

24 Jun

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.

My Penis Is Shitty Batman

23 Jun

It’s a sad fact of life: the penis is cruel. Hundreds of hours of your youth will be spent with an unwanted boner that could embarrass the fuck out of you. Then the one time you need it, the boner is off somewhere playing cards with his boner buddies instead of doing his job of tearing up that ass. It’s like if Batman kept walking in on you while you were taking a shit, but when you were getting the crap kicked out of you by thugs he was nowhere to be found.

Julie Kim

22 Jun

I’m trying to track down my college ex girlfriend. But She’s Korean, and Koreans are impervious to Google.

So are Mexicans, generally.  Kenny Rogers the dog was owned by somebody; there was a name on his chip but it was something to the tune of “Miguel Hernandez.”  Try googling “Miguel Hernandez Los Angeles” or even “Miguel Hernandez Echo Park” and see where that gets you.  It sucks if someone’s considering returning your lost dog but it’s great if you’re on the sex offender registry I guess.  Mexicans have 8 last names and 15 first names so good luck finding one individual. And then Koreans are WAY, WAY worse because you have 5 last names if that.

I’m trying to track her down because she was hot, and we had hot sex, and I want a picture to remind me what she looked like so I can beat off to her tonight.  Except– what the fuck happened to Julie Kim?  How is somebody not on facebook and tons of people knew her and yet no one has spoken to this person in over a decade?

What if she’s dead? What if she died on 9/11? What if I’m beating off to her later and she died being roasted alive by jet fuel and had to leap flaming through a plate glass window and fall 100 stories to her death?

Nikol Is Having Surgery Today

21 Jun

So, pray to whatever god you pray to.  Cast your wishes into the deaf and uncaring wind.  I almost did.  I almost prayed: “Lord, please don’t let Nikol die,” but then I thought God would hear me and think “oh, this jerkoff” and hit that red button and a game show buzzer would play– BAAAHHHHH– and she’d be dead.  Or maybe the losing horn from “The Price is Right.”

 

 

Nikol is having surgery today.  Eight hours to remove seven lymph nodes.  Or something.  Maybe five, I don’t know.  Some number of lymph nodes where it makes the math extremely difficult to divide by eight hours.  The surgery is so long and complicated that there is an intermission.

Lord, please don’t let Nikol die. Please please please, don’t let Nikol die.

There is a chance, a twenty per cent chance, that when removing the lymph nodes, one or more will break open and cancerous cells will leak into her bloodstream. This would result in a much quicker death from the disease.  The cancer would be everywhere.  Twenty per cent chance.  Please don’t let this twenty per cent happen.

When she recovers, if she recovers, her immune system will be permanently compromised. She will have to take prednisone for the rest of her life.  I don’t know what predisone is.  I didn’t know what lymph nodes were; that they were part of your immune system.  I didn’t know what the spleen did until Nikol had to have hers removed.  Having a terminally ill friend is like having an old car– you learn how things work by watching them break all the time.

A lot of people are helping her.  Someone is with her at the hospital; someone’s on her facebook keeping her friends up to date; Xeni Jardin, who is internet famous, is tweeting about her.  Other people cleaned her house so when she returns home with her decimated immune system she won’t immediately fall prey to plague.  My job is to take care of her son tonight.  Spend the night over there, make him dinner, make him breakfast in the morning.  Make sure he gets on the school bus.  I guess– I don’t know.  I should have paid more attention when Nikol was telling me these things on the phone.  Maybe her anesthetized soul is floating over me watching me type these words, thinking I told you exactly what to do, you fucking retard.  I gave you specific instructions; it’s not building a god damn particle collider– well, I’m sorry, discorporeal spirit of Nikol.  My best friend is having fucking cancer surgery, it’s kind of fucking distracting.  Jerk.

I always used to joke with her that I would take Trast to a whorehouse to lose his virginity.  I almost posted that on her facebook– Trast and I are finally gonna take that field trip to Fontana.  But she hated that joke.  And plus if she dies it’s an asshole last thing to have posted on her wall.  But then, she would have been even more pissed that I didn’t post a joke about taking her son to a whore on her wall. And if I had said “I love you and miss you and I am terrified that you are going to die and I am praying that you are going to be safe” she would have been infuriated.

Well, I love you.  I miss you. I am terrified that you are going to die. I am praying that you are going to be safe.

Take that, fuckface.

Continue reading

Diary: More on the Dogs

21 Jun

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 Am a Crab

20 Jun

and then… and then I clatter out from behind the piling, over the barnacles, and I find that a sea worm or other large benthic invertebrate has perished and washed up on the shore, and I drag it away with my disproportionately large right claw to a secluded area where my fellows cannot covet my succulent briney flesh-hoard. And I greedily munch it down with my little paired-mandible apparatus and generally wallow in the stink and decay of the sea. Delicious!