So I don’t have to keep avoiding eye contact with this man who risked his life for our country and is now destitute, while I live in comfort that I did nothing for.
Archive | 2012
Book Review: Women by Charles Bukowski (1st 49 Pages)
11 AugI see why women like Charles Bukowski.
It’s all about relationships. A soap opera about people in love, they break up, they get back together. Nevermind that he’s a blackhead-laden drunk who takes down a quart of hobo vodka and then kicks the shit out of them; it’s about boys and girls breaking up and getting back together and are they gonna break up and are they gonna get together and who’s he gonna get together with next. My mother gave me a book of Bukowski’s when I was 15. Here, she said, this guy is a good writer. I think you’ll like him. I didn’t. What the fuck did I know when I was fifteen. Hunter Thompson I could get at that age; boys’ stories about going on adventures. But Bukowski is for girls who can intuitively grasp that relationships are what’s important in life. I had no fucking idea of what relationships were like.
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Diary: Halloween
10 AugI now hate Halloween after blowing my lunch hour buying a hair dryer for my Warren Beatty/ SHAMPOO costume and getting embroiled in a pre-Halloween day line at the Goodwill like it was 1939 and people were trying to get out of fucking Czechoslovakia, and it was caused by an elderly woman at the front disputing the price of a pair of underwear. No joke. Fighting for it like it was the last pair of high waisted rayon panties on earth and similarly her two dollars represented the very last American currency in existence. Or something. I should have just walked up and given her a buck, but you know, fuck helping people. Or I should have left. But I couldn’t risk it. I might never again have had an opportunity to purchase so perfect a replica of Warren Beatty’s hair dryer so cheaply again. When the world hands you an opportunity like that you have to fight for it, with every fiber of your being.
Mysis Relicta
9 Aug
I’m horny, and I would like to beat off, but I can’t. The reason is– I buy these special shrimp for my fish. They come in a huge frozen block and I have to saw off one little chunk for them at a time. Today I figured I would cut up a bunch all at once, since it’s a pain in the ass, and put them in a Ziploc® bag for future use. The shrimp smell awful, like rotten clams, and it’s that oily kind of smell, like garlic and onions have, that doesn’t come off you even after washing. The best you can do is kind of cover it up. Continue reading
That Thing with the One Chick’s Face
8 AugShe 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.
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.
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New Book
delicioustacos 