image stolen from 6thgradeliteraturevocabulary2011.wikispaces.com
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.
Everything I write seems stupid to me. I edit it to death. Cut and cut and cut; still it’s no good, don’t post it. It’s too toadying to the manosphere. It’s too alienating to the manosphere. You ape Bukowski too much, too little. Something is always wrong with it. I can’t function without pussy. Without pussy I am a talentless sewer mutant. If I continue like this it will nag me more and more. Become recursive. You don’t get pussy so you hate yourself so you can’t get pussy. I got maybe a week before I escalate to Thirst Defcon 3.
I have attempted to get pussy. New Years. But an ex showed up. When she walked in I thought: why did I break up with her. Then we talked and I remembered. Still. I tried, hard. Debased myself. What seemed like an easy prospect fucked me; I spent too much time on it. Who cares, I tried to think. You knew you weren’t gonna get laid. This wasn’t even new pussy, but it was far enough past it would have counted. But one atom of thirst fucks you. It shows on you like a boil.
Tried at a house party on Friday. Cute girls, but they were all comedians. We were sitting around the fire cracking jokes. I was “on.” But my “on” is about 65 per cent of a comedian’s “on” and there were men there too. Pros. This is the thing with Los Angeles. You can look down on a hack comic dying to get a five or less on Two and a Half Men. But that guy is a trained professional. You are the nerd with a brown belt from the mall dojo and he’s the guy who gets in two bar fights a week. A woman comic spends her whole lives around these people. Marginally funny isn’t going to cut it. You console yourself. Think: these people ultimately have no art, contribute nothing that lasts. Change no lives. Not like me, author of half-funny fucked out online dating messages that someone will engrave on a monument somewhere. Look upon my copypastas, ye mighty, and despair.
You go out, you talk to girls with your thirst. You hear the word “boyfriend” and recoil like a dog hit with a bucket of ice water. Women: if you have a boyfriend, just…die. If you won’t fuck me, why do you exist. You look at facebook. See a thumbnail. Who is that, she’s cute. Oh yeah, that girl who… wait, “so and so is in a relationship with…” Dead. I could have a filter that changes “So and so is in a relationship with to “so and so was pulped by a garbage truck.” “So and so caught a stray bullet in a bus stop drive by. The doctors did their best, but.”
You think you need a high concept romantic comedy experiment. Like: don’t fuck for a year. Spend that time becoming a better human being. Men do shit like this to scam themselves. If I say “don’t fuck for a year” I just won’t try to fuck for a year. Girls will sense this, get hot for me. I’ll say “don’t fuck” and spend the year getting laid like Nushawn Williams. Doesn’t work. If you don’t try there are no women to observe you not trying. Even getting to where pussy might be is trying. You have to try like a motherfucker.
Whatever, it won’t last. I’ll make my OKC profile one tenth less of a “fuck you” art project. Send two emails, get one back. Set drinks in two days. All this will be over around11PM Thursday. The bills won’t bother me anymore. My dirty underwear will be cute when the cat curls up in it. My desperation will be like a flu that passed. We live in easy times. Pain can’t catch you as long as there’s pussy Amazon. Some men play World of Warcraft.
delicioustacos 
write for yourself first and foremost.
those who feel your work resonates with their life/taste will appreciate it.
enjoyed this article. going through some thirst too.
Reblogged this on whiskeyandsmoke and commented:
i found my doppelganger:
bills
cat litter
all exponentially exacerbated by lack of the pink taco
This is where I’ve been at since 16 (now 26). Except for one oasis, a tag-teaming my buddy and I did with his GF, I have walked non-stop through the Sahara. I believe it is why I picked up weed at 19-20. This desert destroys the soul, with mirages appearing and enticing you to sprint, give up more water in sweat which is your life-blood out here. When sober (and I’ve tried here and there for a couple weeks), I am wound up so tight it’s a wonder I’m not cast away. So far Mary Jane is the lady who has filled the empty spot in my heart for so long. Even if it depresses me, I’d rather be cool and calm than a powder keg ready to blow. Until I have cashflow to consistently buy prostitutes on a regular basis (thinking 1-2/mo), I don’t see anything changing.
I post this because, I guess, the only thing I’ve found that helps is grass. Alcohol just acts like wound-up-ness jet fuel.
There is no salvation for men like me. We are the invisible, and we suffer invisibly.
You should keep a journal every day. Writing purges a lot of angst.
And you should go out and get laid. Getting laid purges a fuckload of angst. I’m not a big “game” guru, but a lot of commenters here are in that world. They can recommend shit. Like it or not, some of it works.
Where do you live?
Weed is just fucking with your head even more. It turns you into a schizoid zombie. Cut that poison out immediately and nut the fuck up.
>nut the fuck up
Please claim your Nobel Prize for this magnificent advancement in psychiatric medicine.
You suffer because you chose to. Unless you look like some kind of deformed retard you’ll be able to get laid in at least 6 months.
Go take that weed you like, smoke a Shitload of it and speak to girls on the Street.
What’s there to loose?
Choose not to be a bitch and you won’t.
Your experience seems all to familiar to me. Whenever I experience the thirst, I smoke copious amounts of weed.
As someone who has hooked up with a too many female comics, trust me when I say you are not missing much. They’ll have the same personality flaws you have, which is a recipe for disaster.
Also, your blog is funnier than almost all of the LA comics I know. Even the big ones. So take heart.
Great post. This line really fucking tells it like it is:
You don’t get pussy so you hate yourself so you can’t get pussy.
And you can never ape Bukowski too much.
I’ve lived my life in a state of thirst, bro. I know. Meanwhile, I haven’t gotten laid in long enough that I’m counting years instead of days, weeks, or months. Whatever: it sucks really bad from time to time, but I know my own rage well enough and life goes on.
You’re in control or you’re being controlled. And I’d rather have control than pussy. I hate stupidity more than I hate blue balls. And I’ve done enough with my life to know that what I want doesn’t exist. No one ever said it would feel fair, but at least I have the prerogative to be honest about it.
I’m not an attractive man, and it took many years to figure out that women are every bit as superficial and idiotically easy to manipulate as dumbass guys ever were. Knowing this helps sometimes, other times it’s enraging. But at least I’m under no obligation to lie about it.
Get rid of the pets, clean for a day. You can get tons of pussy just by being you. I was in LA. LA was filled with people who think they are somebody. They bored me. You don’t, and I’ve been around the block a time or twelve.
DT, do. not. get. rid. of. the. cat.
Maybe you are just ugly on the inside.
Have you considered that?
Pathetic
Jerk
It’s weird because although your life is clearly better than mine, I feel a lot of compassion for you. I think what you are writing is important, and I really hope you find some way out of this mess,
no u.
But seriously, what a dick thing to say, especially considering the guy hasn’t gotten laid in a while. If you’d written this in reply to an “I just had sex” post, it wouldn’t be so bad, but this — this ain’t cool.
Fair enough, but I assume that this blog’s author remains a persona and publishes opinions and views which are not his as a real person. Therefore, it is absolutely legitimate to critique this persona’s lifestyle where banging a chick over 30 is apparently crossing the line. Complaining on a high level, as one may say.
Maybe you are just a worthless piece of shit? Have you considered that?
Oh dear lord, are you at thirst con 3 yet? can it be my turn?
this is such a great article haha
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