Archive | June, 2015

Buy My Book Hot Naked Tits

29 Jun


Available on Amazon.

“A stunning achievement. Five stars.”

— someone talking about a different book

William Randolph Thirst

29 Jun


(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)

No matter how much pussy I get I’m Elliott Rodger. Couples on the street make me sick. Tepid Tinder response means I’m a chromosome damaged power line baby. My mom should sue a drug company. No response means I don’t exist.

Had a date yesterday. I liked her. She’s pretty. Likes the same books as me. She too is a writer toiling in obscurity. Worried about losing her voice in work, worried about time. We lock in on the same sentences in stories. I want a relationship. So I did what my sponsor told me: don’t make a move. Instead I said: I’d like to see you again. Peter Brady voice crack. She said yes but I think she was lying. At the end I gave her a peck on the bottom lip. We agreed to go to dinner this week. I felt like I had no dick. Continue reading

Hot Naked Tits

28 Jun


I put my best shit into a book. It’s called Hot Naked Tits. 3 bucks even on Amazon because $2.99 is a dirty lie. Kindle & Kindle apps only for now. If it does OK I’ll have some printed.

What can I say. Go fuckin buy it.

Agitated about this. Trying not to put significance on it. But it is significant. No getting around it. Then again– I can do this now because I’ve come around to not giving a shit. I don’t need the money. More people have already read my shit than are gonna buy the book. A fucking lot of people. I have succeeded. This is gravy. Continue reading

Protected: Make No Mistake: You Are a Cunt, Tiffany

15 Jun

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Shit Piss Cunt Fuck

14 Jun
image stolen from

image stolen from

We both know I won’t make 30, I told her. What will you put on my grave. “Kiss Joy as it Flies,” she said.

She died at 4AM Wednesday morning. 36. Heart attack. Drug related. Funeral is tomorrow. I think about putting a snow pea flower in her coffin. I think about her in the coffin and I have to cry.

She’s the other voice in my internal dialogue now. I have to write about you, I tell her. I don’t know what to call it. Maybe “Goodbye Baby” but I never called you baby. Yes, that’s stupid, she says. Obviously shit like “RIP” is out; “She’s Gone,” “She Died,” what the fuck. I can’t use your name. I’m afraid your mom will read it. She’ll think I’m spreading shit that you did drugs. Well you did– you did a ton of fucking drugs. Order an eight ball at 10PM and cook it all up and then another eight ball at 3 in the morning. I had work the next day. Woken up by your douchey fucking dealer from San Diego with the spiky hair. He wanted to fuck you but who didn’t. At least he was respectful about it. Just get a quarter ounce at the start of the night, I’d say. Trying to sound cool. Like I was top secret drugs guy too. Really I was scared. Continue reading