Pussy is heroin for the ego. And I need a fucking hit. It’s been a month. Little more. New Year’s Day was the last time. I know I said New Year’s Eve is an ass desert and don’t go out and fuck New Year’s and etc. But I was wrong; I took home an attractive woman I met at a great party, and fucked her in the morning when I was sober enough for my dick to work. Don’t ever listen to me. But that was a month ago.
Gotta get back on OKCupid now but what do you say, you know. All girls want to know what you do. I’m unemployed. I had put that I had a shitty job, but, a job is a job. I had listed that my income was between forty and fifty thousand dollars a year. Now it’s zero. When girls asked what do you do, I would lie, I would tell them some outlandish shit. But it was a lie with a powerful truth behind it, which was: I work on movies and TV shows you know about and love and I get to meet famous people and, you know, I have a place to go in the fucking morning Monday through Friday.
Now when they ask me what do you do I’m gonna say “nothing.” Not “I’m freelancing” or “consulting” or any of that other white collar doublespeak for “your taxes pay me to jerk off.” What do you do? Nothing, wanna fuck? Nothing, or rather, I’m a wizard, and a master of two handed swords, my job is to rid the island of Solstheim from the menace of the Dragonborn Miraak. But that only takes up a couple hours, the rest of the time I’m sitting on the toilet reading Charles Bukowski. He makes me feel good about not having a job. He didn’t have one a lot of the time and he still got a ton of pussy. Anyway, wanna fuck?
What do you do? Nothing, and I resent you for making me feel like I have to do something. Fuck you and your expectations. I’m not gonna pay for your kids’ stupid college and keep you in a nice car. Eat shit. Your forebears fought for decades for your right to suffer in an office just like I did; go buy your own shit, whore. That’ll go over well.
What do you do? Fuck off, I’ve been unemployed for two days and already you’re pestering me about this fucking shit. If I were two points handsomer I could say I’m an actor and you’d fuck me. Really I’m a writer but I have no concept of how to make money out of it, so it doesn’t count. “Writer” out here means you aspire to get paid five grand a week to argue about take out with a bunch of other unfunny jerkoffs. You write sitcoms that Broadcast Standards & Practices assures will contain nothing funny or honest. You’re basically an overpaid detergent salesman but good for you, you’re pulling off a scam. You are on staff and you are developing a pilot, the premise of which is “and now they all gotta move in together.” He’s white… and she’s Mexican, but they’re married! Wait until grandma hears about this. To be fair, what else are you going to write a sitcom about, but fuck you for having money when I’m broke.
Fuck you for being a detergent salesman but my dream is to be a fucking dildo and whore salesman. Move this site off WordPress and put ads on it for the kind of shit that people who search for “fake rape sex” like to buy. Get a buck every time someone clicks through to a replica of Misti Dawn’s vagina. If I got a tenth of a penny every time someone looked at this site it would cover my internet bill. If I got a penny every time someone looked at this site it would pay for all my liquor. How does one do that.
That’s my project this week. Figure out how to make that happen. What do you do? I write about getting drunk and I get paid ten cents when someone buys a mold of a porn star’s asshole. Beats working. Can’t wait to meet your parents.