Where the fuck did you go
I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not fucking anyone. So: nothing happens.
Wake up. Eat granola. Healthy stool. Shave. My car is broken. Imprudent to spend the money to fix it. Take the bus to the train to my workplace, where I struggle to be of service to the best of my ability. 9 hours of that. Train to the bus to the walk back home. Call the cat in. Eat leftovers. Jerk off to a black man impregnating an overweight Asian woman. Read three pages of A Feast for Crows. Fall asleep. I dream that I’m drinking. The feeling is: oh no I fucked up.
Wake up. Look at Tinder. On the train I make my allotted hundred swipes. If I’m lucky, one girl swipes back. My profile says “message me first.” If I’m lucky one girl does. If I’m lucky it’s something besides “Hi.” If I’m lucky it’s a real first move and she’s asking me out. Can’t bring myself to work for it now. The two millimeter motion of my thumb is as much giving a fuck as I can conjure for these sad stupid women and their sad stupid dogs. If I’m lucky it’s someone OK looking who seems kind of interesting. Maybe we’ll get along with one another. Maybe she finds me attractive enough to actually say something. Like I’ve been saying something to hundreds and hundreds of women for ten years, all for nothing and I fucking give up. If I’m lucky fate will kick in. The universe will take care of me. I’m not lucky.
After work, ride my bike to AA. Spiritual growth but it’s an 80/20 room and there’s no shot at pussy. Or there is, but you have to “fellowship.” Worm your way into some clique of AA people. Go for post meeting Mongolian barbecue where it’s another 80/20 room, four guys hanging on the words of the same one girl you’re all trying to fuck. Six times a week. Occasionally I go speak at mental institutions. No shot there either. The girls have no teeth. Or I’ll go to a Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting. Hear some gay guy talk about how he got HIV.
Go home, cat, jerk off, George RR Martin. Sleep shit shower shave bus train work work work gym home bed. I’m buying a new car. After much deliberation I’ll purchase a certified pre owned Subaru Legacy. My credit is terrible. My payment will be egregious. But I’ll drive Uber with it on Fridays. Save extra. Ten or twenty years I’ll have enough to buy a plot on the beach in the Philippines. Live like Colonel Kurtz. Goat farm in the jungle and a colony of teenage catamites.
For now: time with family. Pay bills. Rebuild credit. Check vigilantly for irregular moles. Apply ointment to the cat when necessary. He’s allergic to flea saliva. There’s a record setting drought and more trees are dying in the park. The city will bring a wood chipper soon and perhaps I’ll dangle my nuts in it. It’s Mother’s Day. I will take my mother to a museum and then a nice Mexican restaurant.
But “where the fuck did you go” means: why aren’t you writing more.
Look dude: I don’t control this. I just make my fingers move on a keyboard every day. Most of the time crap comes out. Something good comes when I feel something. But I feel absolutely zero point zero emotions now. Maybe walking up the hill from the bus I hear a song sparrow. Good. Couple on the street holding hands. Bad. But mostly I just scrutinize my pay stub. Reckon the maximum I can squirrel away grinding for decades so I can set a torch to this life and go Mutiny on the Bounty with nubile chimpanzee faced Filipinas with IQs of 70 and fertile young loins.
Fuck all this shit. Fuck everything. My apartment gets cleaner, my bills are paid sooner, my FICO score creeps up, I own nicer appliances. It’s all nothing. I live like Ward Fucking Cleaver except for the part where he had a wife and kids and he came home and they gave a fuck about him. That’s over in this world, so: fuck you I’ll do what I want. The jungle. The monkeyfaced girls. Die taking a 150cc scooter off a volcano.
One thing I won’t do is make garbage to fill space. The entire internet is complete shit. No one has real feelings. Everyone has time to fill, space to fill, money to make. Deadlines every day to boost the brand. Sell books about how to write books by not really writing books in a sponsored post for Linkedin because some cunt you got pregnant needs money– fuck all that shit forever. Numbered lists of crap reacting to crap that means nothing, commentary on commentary on White Males Versus Everyone Else, fake MSNBC versus fake Fox News and all of it just exists to sell you Single Christian Women over Fifty or whateverthefuck ads you get. Mine are all for Subarus now.
Cut me a fucking break. I do what I can. Every couple months I crack a story in the shower. Ten more and you can buy my book for three dollars. When will that be: I don’t fuckin know. It’s not up to me. You can force meaningless trash that helps no one. You can’t force good shit.
Also, the post below this is pretty good and it’s like two weeks old. Jesus Christ.