My poor cat has a urinary tract blockage. My poor Bud. He just squatted in the litterbox for like ten minutes, straining out a niggardly trickle of pee. And he peed on the bathmat recently, unheard of for him, and in fact appeared to have peed just outside the box once before, since the underside of it was all covered in ammonia-smelling cat piss. Which, one of the symptoms of cat urinary tract blockage is they like to piss on a “cool, smooth surface.” This is bad shit. Your cat could die, although, I just picked him up and his abdomen doesn’t appear to be in any pain. So, you know, this isn’t life-threateningly serious. I made an appointment to take him to the vet tomorrow. Who knows. The internet says that shit just goes away sometimes. Continue reading
Having a Job
10 Julis at once hating something and being in mortal fucking fear of losing it. Like being married to someone who beats you up.
Like owning a subsistence farm that only grows horrible tasting fruits and stinking corpse lilies. Like living solely off mushrooms that grow in dog shit, that taste like dog shit, but it’s the only food you have. If you anger these fickle dog shit tasting mushrooms they will go away and you will starve and die. You will be like nine grand in credit card debt, your car will be broken, you will have no ability to support yourself.
Diary: Kate Flakes
9 JulFucking 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
The Alpha and the Omega
7 JulI read a lot of “man-o-sphere” blogs. Roosh and Chateau Heartiste and stuff like that. It’s part of the reason why I write about getting laid so much, or failing to get laid– because I like these blogs. You read shit like that and you want to write about it yourself. Screeds about internet fatties and so on. Yelling at women for not having a sense of humor.
You read enough of this stuff and you pick up an adversarial tone toward women. Or rather, it brings out the natural hatred and resentment of women in a guy who thinks he doesn’t get laid enough. A guy who thinks other guys are getting laid more than him. Who thinks this relates to his own deeper worthiness, the judgment of some drunk chick. Your failure to get her to act on some base impulse when another guy was successful at it. It means you are a loser. It affirms your own deeper self hatred. And you get pissed off.
The weird thing is, I get laid plenty, and I still feel like this. I get more ass than a toilet seat despite my self-loathing being pretty dead-on in a lot of respects. I am an underachieving mean-spirited layabout and chicks still like me. Why on Earth do I get so mad at them– they like me a lot. Most of them end up fucking me, and they call me, and I don’t call them back. Why am I so resentful of women who are supposedly not wanting to sleep with me, when they are in fact sleeping with me. I’m the one blowing them off. You have to create more and more elaborate standards to keep considering yourself the victim. You become angry that nineteen year old girls under one hundred twenty pounds with small noses and perfect facial symmetry want to sleep with some famous guy in a band rather than you. You become angry that guys with so-called “game” are getting laid more than you, when in fact game is completely accessible to everybody and if it were such a big deal, why didn’t you just learn it. You become angry that guys with small noses and perfect facial symmetry have an easier time getting laid than you. Not that they get laid more than you, but that they have an easier time of it. Like being rich by your own hand and getting pissed at people with inherited wealth. Continue reading
Diary 2005: Irritable Bowel Syndrome
6 JulNote: 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.
Continue reading
Sexy Geeks
5 JulWe gotta reclaim this word “geek,” away from the “sexy geek” concept. It doesn’t mean anything anymore besides what kind of eyeglass frames and t shirts you wear. Real geeks play tabletop Warhammer at the hobby shop and their face & mannerisms give off a slight whiff of chromosome damage. Or they’re on the business end of the autism spectrum and they will appear “sexy” when their computer program makes enough money so that the one attractive Asian woman who works at their company decides she can tolerate a lifetime of his weird nasal monotone.
Celebrity Sighting: Rob Lowe
4 JulWorking out at the office gym. I was doing some rows. Going heavy on the back work, as is my wont.
So I am pulling a large unwieldy amount of weight back on a cable. And then an ass appears in my peripheral vision. Right in my fucking face. And I kind of freaked out and jerked to the side, causing my spine to bear some two hundred pounds at an awkward angle.
The ass was that of Rob Lowe, bent over tying his shoe. He looks fantastic.
Mouth Tumors
3 JulAnd 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.
Someone Somewhere Tonight
2 Jul
I was googling “Kenny motherfucking Rogers” last night, as is my God given duty as an American. I came across this post on a Phish fan forum in response to negative comments about Kenny’s performance of “The Gambler” with the band:
jilliebean(OP) • Mon Jun 11, 2012 12:40 PM:
You shut the fuck up and you have some god damned mother fucking respect. This man is a damned legend. No fuck that he is a LEGEND. He is musical royalty and you better bow down to the awesomeness that is the fucking Gambler. He is a real man. He is the kind of man who would fuck you up in the street old school style, with his fists and then he would fuck your woman after dinner and leave her before breakfast riding away on the back of a fucking horse and THEN he would write a beautiful song about it which would sell 250 million copies. And do you know what your girlfriend would do then? She would spend the rest of her fucking life reliving that beautiful act of love over and over in her mind and crying herself to sleep while touching herself wishing that you were a real man like Kenny. He knew when to hold them and when to fucking fold them. He fucked the likes of Dolly Parton, he is fucking a hotter girl right now than you will ever get and today, at 70 years old he could still take you behind the wood shed, kick your ass and then fuck your wook girlfriend just for fun. He was drinking hard and smoking and fucking before you were even a gleam in your mother’s eye. So you shut your pie hole you asses, or Kenny will come and shut it for you. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 