Archive | July, 2015


26 Jul

Going crazy. Want to kill myself. I hate my sponsor. I hate God. I hate Alcoholics Anonymous. But it’s too early to drink.

Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous: don’t get me started. It’s the devil. Felt good for a day thinking I wouldn’t be thirsty anymore. Then Isla didn’t text me back. I woke up and understood why people shoot up movie theaters.

Big coyote in the park this morning. Running from something. Kicked out of his pack, out into the atom bomb sunlight. Poor bastard. I still chased him. Continue reading

Morning Meditation

19 Jul


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In the mood to hang myself today. To counteract this I’m in the park. To meditate. Conscious contact with my higher power. His voice is in the birds. But somewhere there’s a city crew using a gas powered weed cutter or some shit. Clearing brush at 8am on a Sunday. Definitely the best time to have loud machines. Not between 9 and 5 on a weekday when people are at school and work. 8AM Sunday when the crew can make double time and people want to sleep in. Weed whacker grinding up nests full of baby birds that would have grown up to sing.

Also some Mexican event going on. Sabado Gigante announcer barking into the loudest PA mankind ever built. Subwoofers the size of the pyramids. State sponsored festival for childhood diabetes. You get pamphlets and a free tote bag that says Law Offices of Larry H. Parker. Lines for this extending back into the canyons. A bouncy castle, the delighted screams of children. Ice cream truck with hand drawn unlicensed Spiderman on the side, playing “Music Box Dancer.” One of the teeth in the music box is broken; it’s been missing a note for ten years. Continue reading

Second Date Idea

9 Jul
image stolen from

image stolen from

I want to chain you to a pipe. Stop taking birth control. Move into my sweaty apartment. Let go of your possessions. Your pets. I’ll ladle water down your gullet. Sop up your waste. You’ll live off fruits I baby bird down your throat as I impregnate you again and again. Build a bunker underground for our hundreds of offspring. With whom I’ll also breed. Continue reading


5 Jul

(Buy my book Hot Naked Tits.)

God will not get you any pussy. He cannot cure cancer. Or at least, He won’t. He won’t get your kids home safe; He won’t save your job; He will not affect your AIDS test. What He will do if you can get through to Him is remind you that it doesn’t matter. God is your insignificance. God is the knowledge that you’re already dead. The world moves on as if you were never there. One day it’ll be as though the world itself was never there. Your mistakes, less meaningful than the death of a liver fluke. Like your happiness. Continue reading

Diary: To Do List

4 Jul
Image © 2015 Bank of America Corporation

Image © 2015 Bank of America Corporation

(Buy my book Hot Naked Tits.)

Have to fucking drive to spend Father’s Day with my stepdad. Have to go to my friend’s stupid bachelor party. Arranged by oafs. There will be no sex and no possibility of sex. Have to go to the Alcoholics Anonymous District GSR meeting. This is where… I don’t fucking know. Some joiner thing, you hear about issues pertaining to the worldwide organization. Discuss budgeting the district pancake breakfast. Hear a bunch of serial DUI hairspray drinkers dither over Robert’s Rules of Order. Report back to your group. My group of East LA heroin addicts could not give less of a fuck. Why did I agree to this. Have to give my cat a flea bath. Then vacuum up the fleas on the carpet. Then apply flea medicine. Any one of these things: a nightmare. All 3, get the fuck out of here.

Clean the fish tank. Do laundry. Wash every dish. Clean the bathtub, the sink, which were already “deep cleaned” by professionals. 9 days later, filthy. Thought I’d be an adult. Get the place in order. It’s a New Way of Life but I was right the first time: cleaning is useless. It doesn’t make me happier. Doesn’t even keep the landlady off my ass. There’s always something else to clean. I’d rather eat a six foot log of my own shit swarming with house centipedes and their gooey egg sacs than clean the toilet again. It’s a fucking woman’s job. I blame feminism. Continue reading