Good afternoon. It is almost 4 motherfucking PM. I have been looking at stupid shit on the internet all day. Wikipedia articles about George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. Articles I had already read previously. I am in the second day of a cocaine hangover.
Who gives a shit. What else would I have done. It’s fucking Halloween weekend. The whole town awash in stupid parties; people who think they are going to get laid. You are not going to get laid on Halloween. It is motherfucking amateur hour out there. Everybody who couldn’t get their dick in a pussy if their life depended on it is out there on Halloween, in a meticulously planned costume for which all the labor and planning and money gets you half a sentence of conversation. And you can’t even use it again next year. Everybody for whom three and a half vodka Red Bulls is a wild night is out on Halloween, ready to rage. Every girl who withers at the sight of a penis is out dressed as slutty nurse or slutty Teletubby or sexy slutty zombie reference to some pop culture fad and she is not going to fuck you. You are going to make out with her at best and walk around with a big smear of zombie makeup on your face and costume.
Everybody’s out getting drunk on Halloween, and New Year’s Eve, and those are two nights of the year I have not once gotten laid. Special occasions are the refugee camps of fucking. Everybody is crowding into what they think is the last fuckboat out of Hitler’s Europe. Everybody with lame boring lives thinks it’s their semiannual chance to have a good time. You know what it’s like? The people for whom your college’s carnival was a big deal. Square Dockers-wearing types with at least a B average who would go on to normal relationship and jobs using Microsoft Excel– this was their night to bar crawl; the girls’ night to eat the fruit out of jungle juice on fraternity row and maybe bag that square jawed guy who owned Oakleys and gave her sideye in econ class. Real degenerates got laid on a Tuesday back then, and still do. Be wary of parties that everyone’s invited to. Fucking is a party that not everyone is invited to. It’s not a hobby. You play the Game of Bones, you win, or you die. There is no middle ground.
Beware of parties that require you to plan. To sign up in advance. To show up early before they jack up the entrance fee. No matter when you show up, the entrance fee will have been jacked. Fire code, you know, and the fine print says it only applies to the first one hundred people, and that includes the charmless DJ with his retinue of 85 losers to carry his equipment. That includes the staff and the weird old fat people in Venice carnivale masques who must be into swinging, who have been standing around for hours when you roll in at nine forty five, the way the decrepit old show up for the Early Bird Special. The room looks like they shot Eyes Wide Shut at an IHOP in Tulsa. Beware of any night where in popular culture you are supposed to get laid, because that night is a whale carcass to the sea scavengers that are the sad and unfuckable sausage of the world. Halloween is for losers. And for children. I am saying this because I went out for Halloween and did not get laid.
Astrid fucked a man on the dance floor, she said. You missed the real party stomping off like that, it was upstairs. Well look, you getting laid is not evidence that it was a good party any more than a volleyball court is evidence that Guantanamo is a fun place to stay. You’ve gotten laid in church; it’s a different ballgame for a dude. It’s a ballgame at all.
Anyway. I was an asshole. I ditched my friends and called Gertrude and got a bag of coke and we just sat around talking about how much we like each other before passing out. Then we woke up at 3pm and watched movies. Eric Rohmer’s La Collectionneuse. What a piece of ass in that movie. She does not get naked. Andrei Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev. Disjointed epic about a fifteenth century religious painter in Russia. They killed a horse in it. Got one from the slaughterhouse; Tarkovsky shot it in the neck to scare it and slow it down, then they chucked it, thrashing, down a long flight of stairs. It symbolized something. All moments in Russian art symbolize the same one thing and you can only understand it when you’re drunk.
Then I fucked her. It was a struggle not to cum instantaneously, just the way I like it.