She is extremely hot. But when I am most assured of the fact that she’s attracted to me she starts to look like a goofy fat-faced fourteen year old boy, and when I think she’ s blowing me off, then I remember how preposterously hot she is. Everybody’s like that. There’s some self-sabotaging subconscious glitch that distorts your perception. Some fucking mechanism, a brutally efficient one, whose purpose is to make sure you’re never happy. That if somebody likes you you can never find them attractive, but if they don’t give a fuck about you they’re painfully beautiful. This is not news to anybody, my saying this. But Jesus– it’s fucking perverse.
Archive | August, 2012
The Answer to Every Dating Question Is:
6 AugBecause you are ugly.
Why do girls flake? Because you are ugly. Why do they not message me back? Because you are ugly. Why is she cagey about giving me her phone number? Because you are ugly. Why did she give me the cheek at the end of the date? Because you are ugly.
Good looking people never have to ask these questions unless they are extraordinarily repellent and retarded. If you have ever thought any of these things, you are ugly. Sorry. Trust me, I know all this shit from experience.
Sunday Call with Mom
5 AugHave to call my mother. Haven’t spoken to her in three weeks. This puts a lot of pressure on the conversation. No doubt she has done things in the past three weeks, and I will hear about those things. It will now take three times as long to hear about all the things. Meals she has prepared; Amnesty International meetings she went to. Things pertaining to yoga, her yoga instructor. Her yoga instructor’s husband. He is a musician. He plays in a band; perhaps my mother will have gone to see the band perform, typically at an Italian restaurant. I will hear about the quality of the show.
Then I will be expected to say things. My things should also, logically, take three times as long as normal to say because of the lacuna in our communication. But I don’t talk about work. I hate talking about work; I am ashamed of how menial and unrewarding my job is, plus, bringing it up in any detail makes the humiliation and trauma fresh to me, and I don’t want her to hear this in my voice. I don’t want my mother to know that my life is mostly horrible. I also can’t talk to her about the thing that makes me the most happy, which is having unprotected sex with women much younger than me, right after I meet them. I can’t tell her how I’m extremely good at this and I’m pleased that I have become so practiced at it. That I had feared that as my age advanced and my hair turned gray and yet I still didn’t have any success or money, that the type of woman I am attracted to, which is ones that are over fifteen years younger than me– I had feared that I would lose my access to these women, that they would see me as a gross boring old pervert. But in fact it is easier when you are thirty six years old to have unprotected sex very fast with nineteen year olds than it has been at any other time. It is unbelievably easy, like a joke, and I can see this going on for ten more years, and their bodies are so beautiful, their pussies just lightly musky and fresh-tasting; I love when I’m fucking them to pretend that I’m going to ejaculate inside them and my copious seed will find purchase in their fertile and healthy young wombs and they will be pregnant and their lives will be ruined; this gives me so much happiness and pleasure. I cannot tell my mother about this. She likes to hear about the cat though. Continue reading
Diary: Street Cleaner
3 Aug
Good morning. The fucking street cleaner barreling up the street, diesel engine the size of a rhinoceros with absolutely no precautions taken to dampen the sound. Displacing the 3 leaves that have fallen and the single Von’s receipt and Payday wrapper. Moving these things over slightly. Spraying down a thin layer of water, not enough to carry the dirt into the drain. Just enough to slightly rearrange the dirt into new patterns, like drizzle on your dirty windshield.
Street cleaning does not clean the street. It exists so that every residential thoroughfare can be half blocked off to parking once a week, so the city can collect tickets. It is 8:15; the city collects tickets from 8 to 10, and the street cleaner has gone by. But if I went and parked on the side of the street blocked off for the street cleaner now, would they spare me a ticket? Of course not. Letter of the law.
Continue reading
Hey Olivia
2 AugYou know how it is– you go on a couple dates with someone and they go really well, but then you tell her you’re going to write her a bunch of letters while she’s in NY and you don’t, and then she comes back and she happens to be at the same party unbeknownst to you but you’re all hammered and it seems like a good idea to make out with a kind of weird leathery Russian chick on the dance floor, and this original person whom you actually like sees you and then you read about it on her twitter, and are flattered to be called a “fake boyfriend” but somewhat aghast that she witnessed you making out with and actually fingerbanging said leathery Eastern Bloc type who was possibly like 45 years old, but then you have a decent text exchange months later so it seems like everything is cool, and then you run into her at the Echo Park Von’s over by the eggs and she is in some kind of emotional distress that may or may not be amplified by bumping into you at the grocery store. It could have gone either way. But it went well. Continue reading
Celebrity Interaction Review: Lauren Bacall
2 AugLauren Bacall is a miserable human being. At least, that’s what I was able to gather from being on the phone with her for two minutes. At once terrifying, cruel, and a huge pain in the ass. She should be shot.
I mean, who knows, maybe she was just having a bad day. Still. Anybody who is mildly unpleasant to me for a hairsbreadth of time, for something that probably is my fault = a thousand deaths are not enough.
EDIT 8/12/14: Sorry she’s dead.
Fuck Winnie Cooper
1 AugYeah, but fuck Winnie Cooper. Winnie always looked a little alien, or like a Hapsburg or something. Her skull was shaped like a Lego person’s. And she always seemed uptight.
Continue reading
Female Pinocchio
1 AugMaybe I need to make a female Pinnochio. I like the idea of this sad little marionette being overjoyed at coming to life and then the joy instantly turns to disgust as my veiny, unwashed penis comes at her.
New Book
delicioustacos 