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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.
Time with family. Supportive friends. Healthy adult life. I prayed for these things. They all suck. I was right when I was drunk. It’s all a conspiracy to suck up my tax money so lucky poor people can get 14 year olds pregnant and party. Seen both sides of the fence now. 9 to 5, respectable income, nice car– the car’s cool but the rest can blow.
I’m six foot one and built like god damn Brad Pitt. I earn enough that a broad could stay home and write her stupid poetry. I travel and have many fine hobbies. I have a salacious criminal past and a secret identity with thousands of readers around the world. People read my shit in fucking Gabon. I’m universally recognized by every prominent misogynist as the best writer in the manosphere, god dammit. All this buys me a “maybe” from a 6 with a BMI of high normal. She’ll flake day of with a text. Or just not show up.
And she’s doing me a favor. Talking to her would make me sick. But I chase her anyway. A Bank of America ATM showed me an ad for Special Olympics. Two retarded teen gymnasts hold a torch. Artificial fire for safety. Their fat white thighs and little golf ball tits made me horny. They’re sisters; stack em on top of each other and make em go for the gold… Jesus Christ, I make myself sick. Too horny to live. Too lonely too, but girls just make me lonelier.
I don’t work that hard but it’s hard enough. Forty hours a week sucks all other possibility from life. Most people work more. Sixty hours, eighty hours– they do this and they’re proud of it. That’s a whole other malaise, but the point is: you can’t do this and then pay bills, change diapers, spend time with your aging parents too. Clean the house. Someone else must be responsible for one hundred per cent of every other little pain in the ass. Otherwise living is untenable. You need a wife. But now a house is six billion dollars. You both gotta work. I blame feminism.
Yesterday the dominant fact of life was that my legs hurt. I’d done squats. Did not go heavy. But I kept good form and the better your form the more it hurts. Don’t skip squats, say people who can’t bench for shit but want to feel manly. Men who look at other men shirtless and say “work on your legs.” Really your thighs are thick naturally. “Work on your legs” means “get bigger calves” and “get bigger calves” means “be fat for 20 years.” Do squats. Why. My thighs don’t grow. I could eat a full Fred Flintstone rack of brontosaurus ribs every day. Ten thousand grams protein per KG of my weight. Squat sixteen times a week. Past a point you’re just beating yourself up to say you did it. You’re limited by your cartilage. Mine is gone. Jogging every day from ten to sixteen. It never comes back. Don’t jog. Also: fuck squats.
Parents, friends, dishes– what else. Write. Oh yeah, that. Write means: wake up. Read “serious” literature on the toilet. Then sit getting pissed at a blank Word document for 20 minutes until you give up and jerk off. Has to be first thing. If it’s too cold your fingers won’t move. If it’s too hot your thoughts become jagged half-phrases about nothing. Today it’s too hot. If you pollute your mind with one instant of internet– if you look at tinder once, one horsefaced picture with stupid woman gibberish underneath it… one tweet about how not racist some white person is. One facebook post about some fat hometown dork’s stupid marital happiness– instantly, all thought is gone.
I did that this morning, if you can’t tell. Coffee cereal shit shower shave. In the shower I thought about Important Matters. I read Raymond Carver’s “Elephant,” which used minimal language and dealt with AA related themes I can deeply relate to. I did all that shit and then sat down to type but first I looked at Tinder for one instant. Now this.
Thoughts fly away as I grasp them. If I could catch them they’d be the One Big Story that’d change my life. But I looked at one tweet. Hey white gamers who think Charleston cops guns republicans black people signal boost transphobia, said some whiteboy. I hate cops too but some third tier Salon freelancer chiding me makes me wish all ethnic minorities would be rounded up and exterminated, just to piss that guy off. I could unfollow him but then how would I be miserable.