when I hassle her about other girls. Did you get that girl’s number. We could have a three way with her. Pressuring her into three ways when I just want a new piece of pussy. I ask her because she has it so much easier. Girls can go up to girls and just say “you’re hot.” You don’t have to pretend you don’t want it. It’s such a fucking process with men and women. You, you can go up and say fuck me.
You ask me to move your fucking couch, I ask you talk to girls. Why don’t you do it yourself, she says. She has contempt for my neediness. Asking her to ask for pussy implies that I can’t get pussy on my own. Well look: I get pussy, but I still need more pussy. There isn’t so much pussy in the world that I won’t run out.
What killed me was the way she walked. She would pick up her feet like a cat in a litter box not wanting to step in its piss. Like a fawn trotting. It made her ass shake in that sheer little Wilma Flintstone dress and she knew it. She was “bubbly.” Friendly. She dropped a piece of ice and the host said it’s great to watch you bend over and she giggled like it was 1962 and no one ever got sued. She laughed in a way that let you pretend. You know she’s fucking some yoga instructor or some Russian guy for money but you can’t remember these things like you can’t remember the alphabet backwards when a cop’s shining a klieg light in your eyes. Continue reading
I have sixteen free hours per day to cure cancer, travel the world, find my soul mate, write something that changes someone’s life or at least makes someone feel less alone for two minutes. Instead I’m looking at fucking Gawker and Jezebel. Yahoo CEO Marissa Mayer has done something that made people angry. Also she is good looking. Some TV show is racist. Someone on Reddit’s cat did something and it’s been viewed ten billion times, and now it’s on Gawker and people are trying to be clever about it. Behind me is a shelf piled with the great books of western literature; on top of the Works of Plato is a butterknife and when I moved it there was a butterknife-shaped clean spot in the dust. Some guy who got out of prison doesn’t know how to read; you can go to the L.A. public library and sit down with him and teach him. You could save his entire fucking future and that of his children and think of the stories he would tell you. A sign told me about this adult literacy volunteer program when I went to the library two weeks ago and checked out the collected short stories of William Faulkner, which I haven’t cracked. I thought about volunteering for a second. Now would be the time do do something like this. Nah. Continue reading
I woke up and a demonic metal brontosaurus was leaning over me, shrieking, and then murmuring in a woman’s voice. Behind her was Satan, in a long black cloak with glowing red eyes. I screamed and screamed. “Low battery” said the demon. What the fuck? “Low battery.” What– Satan was my coat, his eyes were the reflection of my alarm clock in the window. The dinosaur was my lamp. I must have taken my phone off vibrate, it was telling me to charge it. Weird, it had never done that before. I could hear the neighbors thumping upstairs, thinking I’d been gutted. Their dog was freaking out. I found the phone, turned it off. Started drifting off again. Dreamt I was on a boat in the ocean. Mona was there, her sun-warm skin, her belly. The wind. Sardines glimmering in the sunlight under the waves… Continue reading
You get scared when you leave a white collar job that you’re gonna end up picking up trash. Well, not to worry. You can’t get that job. It’s a union gig. A city gig. You get scared that you’re gonna get trapped in some soul-crushing civil service shit for years like Bukowski. But you can’t get a job at the post office. They’re cutting back. You have to know somebody. You can’t get a job flipping burgers. You’re overqualified (in my case, this is true). You can’t do shit labor on a construction site. Half of Mexico is up here trying to do that.
So what can you do. You can get a job in a STEM field, they tell you. If only you had gotten your degree in a STEM field, you would be in great demand. Science, technology, engineering, mathematics. A computer programmer, in other words. Do you know how fucking hard that shit is? I could barely pass my intro to C++ class, and I’m smart. Your ability to do that shit is purely genetic, and it’s the same gene that makes you smell like cheese and talk like that pedophile’s RealDoll from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Hearing that little pussy talk makes me think we need more bullying in schools. There is no talented computer programmer on the face of this earth who can buy a six pack at the liquor store and make small talk with the clerk normally. There certainly isn’t one who can speak to a woman. Continue reading
I am still going through your catalog when I have time to read, so apologies if this has already been asked, but have you ever wrote about or just been involved in any jail time? Maybe been in a fight? Sobriety Test? Close Calls?
Last fight I was in was my college roommate and he beat the fuck out of me. I deserved it. Little guy but he was black. Racial stereotypes are all 100% accurate. I threw the first punch and I was being an asshole. It taught me a lesson, which is: I am a dick and anyone who wants to beat my ass is probably right. Since then I’ve avoided fights because I’m a pussy. Generally, you can. You can talk your way out of anything. Dudes will get pissed at you but either they don’t really want to fight, or they do and that means they could kick your ass, so you just back down. I don’t give a shit about feeling like a pussy. I own pink underwear and I fastidiously groom my fingernails.
My last sobriety test was like 2 months ago, the cop just made me follow his finger around without moving my head. I passed. Continue reading
I am in a coffee shop slash independent book store drinking a 3 dollar cup of tea called “White Orchard.” In ancient China, only kings and queens were allowed to drink white tea, the foil packet tells me. I am wearing a cardigan. Avant garde jazz featuring baritone sax is playing. I am surrounded by people looking at Tumblrs on brushed titanium Mac laptops that were not purchased with their own money. The coffee shop is owned by Dave Eggers. I want to walk in and beat my own ass.
I am an unemployed white man with skinny jeans on and three days’ growth of beard hunting and pecking into a laptop in a coffee house at noon on a Wednesday. This is like the moment where a promising young black guy on his way to college makes one small mistake and finds himself on the prison bus. I am looking down at my shackles contemplating how I threw everything away. I would bristle when they called me a hipster. Nothing hip about me, I would say. I work in an office. No one can be hip when they use Microsoft Excel regularly. Not now. Continue reading