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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.
Fuck right away or nothing. Fuck right away or they hate you. Fuck right away or you’re a worm, and the horror of seeing it proved over and over.
Went inside and tried to jerk it to her but I couldn’t make it stick. Had to switch over to the fat Chinese girl stuffing her grapefruit tits into a black bikini top in the Target dressing room. I masturbate to women I don’t like. That’s who I can build a story around where they’d fuck me. Hideous in itself, but also: she’s a human being. An artist. Worried about losing her voice in work. We share things but she looks a certain way so she’s a hole. She wouldn’t fuck me so I went into my “good” date with no swagger. I resent her for that.
In my heart I’m thirteen. The first age where you get girls or not. Whatever happens after, you’re stuck that way. You either get on the bus or the fucker pulls off and you’re chasing it forever. Making up for thirteen when you’re fifty.
Meanwhile girls fly to fuck me because of this web site. Mail me their panties. I’m fucking a Pasadena City College freshman with CUNT cut into her arm. She stops by, eats chicken, sticks her sweaty summer twat in my face, its fill-me-with-babies-teenage perfume. Sits on my cock until I cum like a machine gun. Leaves with a kind word. I like her spirit. Her perfect teenage skin next to my grisly middle aged sac with its snowy hairs like Kenny Rogers’ beard. She talks about her homework and it makes me hard.
If I text her and she’s doing laundry I think: she’s leaving me. Sometimes when she’s with me I think she’s leaving. I can literally feel thirst while my dick is inside a hot young teen.
This is why I hate women. They’ll leave me because I don’t like myself. Then I don’t like myself because they leave me. When does it stop. Maybe if I joined a band.