Archive | January, 2014

Protected: Weekend Journal: Blackout

25 Jan

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Protected: Coffee Shop Diary: Megadrought

17 Jan

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Suicide Girls

15 Jan
image stolen from

image stolen from

Right before the plane took off she sent me an email. Said she was going to kill herself. Cut-and-pasted the research she was doing on method. Pills, carbon monoxide, helium. I knew all of these. Used to hear about them in texts from Astrid. Before that, other women.

They’re great communicators. They know to show not tell that they’re serious. A mere ”I am going to kill myself” means nothing from a woman. Even Anne Sexton and Sylvia fucking Plath wrote volumes of warnings first. Dragged it out over years. If you hear it from me once, I’m already dead. Went out with a bullet hoping WordPress’ “schedule future post” feature worked. Continue reading

Drunk Thoughts on Global Capitalism

8 Jan

empty brandy bottle

Previously on “Drunk Thoughts”

Last night I consumed a pint of Christian Brothers® brandy from Royale Junior Liquor Market and sat down to determine my position on global capitalism and the future of the labor market.  This was not inspired by Drunk History:

There are three people who want a job for every job. This doesn’t count people who said “fuck it” and just left the workforce. People underemployed, part time, cleaning toilets with a lit degree.

We don’t make anything physical in America now. The thing we do make, computer code– Mark Zuckerberg is lobbying congress so he can import labor for it. Otherwise he might have to train people. Those people might take that training and do something with it other than make him richer. Can’t have that.

It will get worse. Practically, there will be no jobs soon. First you will be replaced by cheap overseas labor. Then cheap overseas labor will be replaced by robots.

We hear this and we ask: but what will we do for work?

How will we be slaves? Continue reading

The Thirst

8 Jan
image stolen from

image stolen from

Now I need pussy again. Even though it hasn’t been long. Barely even fucked the last girl; she got scared and asked me to stop. I reminded her of some past trauma. But it went in. It counts. What was that, six weeks. Already I’m ugly in the mirror. Two weeks off from the gym and my body is pasty and fat. Objectively there’s maybe a three per cent difference. If I’d just torn off a new piece of young ass I’d look within striking distance of Ryan Reynolds, soft bathroom light be damned. Six weeks.

I’m acutely aware of my lack of money, my lack of job prospects, the filth in my house. Cat hair, grease and spiderwebs everywhere. Boxes of old bills and DMV letters I don’t need but can’t be assed to sort through. Fish tank with long tufts of kelly green algae blowing in the filter current. Edges of the cat’s litter box spattered with shit. Taint smelling underwear hanging off furniture like Tibetan prayer flags. When you stop getting laid this shit starts to matter. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. Continue reading