Morning Meditation

19 Jul


(Buy my book Hot Naked Tits.)

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.

So much for meditation. The weed whacker groans on. Biggest drought in history. There are no weeds. The park is pure dirt. Cactuses are wilting. But the crew has to come out. My higher power speaks. The meaning of life is: you just have to GGGRROOWORROWRROOOWRRRR

I have a date today. It won’t go well. She’s Asian and 33 years old. She’ll be on hormonal birth control. She won’t like me. She’ll ask what do you do. I’m a fucking secretary. Like Maggie Gyllenhaal in the movie. I’m a pathetic piece of shit is what I do, and my nose is broken. What do you do what do you do what do you do, they all want to know. Plus, Asians are overvalued. Every dork wants one.

I went out with another writer. She didn’t like me either. Fine. She’s Japanese but she looks like a Mexican with Downs syndrome. Her work. I haven’t seen it but I know it’s garbage. Professional fashion blogger. There’s not one good fashion blogger on this planet. There’s exactly one good blogger of any kind on this planet. What luck, it’s me. She’s an aging untalented twat with a potato sitting on top of her neck and I lost out on a third date with her to some lawyer. What does that make me.

What can I offer a woman. I don’t know anything except how to write honestly. But I’m the only person who knows this. It isn’t hard. Do you want it? She didn’t. She wants some dork with money.

What did you expect. She’s 30. At 28 women start calling men by their jobs. A hot girl who writes me from Texas joined Tinder. She goes on two dates a night. They’re the surgeon, the trial lawyer, the CEO. Then she’s surprised when they text her how they want to give her a house covered in rose petals. You either fuck all the time or not at all. You’re either a pure pussy wizard or a sexless bumbling dork. Anyone with the monomania for a prestige job: the latter.

Still. At 28 girls chase the surgeon, the CEO. At 22 the black tar smoking bass player. Pussy chases extremes. The middle is death. A job that doesn’t eat your life, art as a hobby: death. Pussy wants a mansion or pussy wants to sleep on the sidewalk. I have an apartment.

My date will flake. After I leave my house to meet her. Something came up. She won’t suggest an alternate time. I’m good about not saying “cunt.” Not good about holding back from turning that flash of hatred on myself. What I wanted to make me happy will make me miserable. Every god damn thing I try is an appointment in Samarra. I’ll never get laid. Never get married. Never have children. Fine. Listen to me. Why would I make another one of whatever I am.


All right. I meditated. Of course the work crew is from the storm yesterday. Lightning hit the palms. Set them on fire. Magnificent. At night the coyotes came. Crying at each other behind the house. When I hear them I go chase them. There’s always a scout. He runs just far enough to look back and know I can’t catch him. Their burrow must have flooded. They’re going all Watership Down looking for a new place to live. If they catch you, they will kill you, prince with a thousand enemies. One of these days the scout will draw me into the pack. They’ll catch me and I’ll have to hand it to them. What a way to go.

The PA is coming from the stadium. Some kind of youth baseball. Good for them. My date will flake or she won’t and if she does it’s a blessing. I know from her texts she’s not my future wife. Who cares. I’ll be a secretary for another fifteen years. Go to the third world. Buy an illiterate teen slave. With my first world economic power she’ll be forced to squeeze out my babies and clean my toilet. Finally I’ll be happy. Look at that. Spiritual progress.

6 Responses to “Morning Meditation”

  1. Atlanta Man July 19, 2015 at 12:56 pm #

    Funny thing is who the fuck wants to marry a 28-33 year old when you are a surgeon or CEO? I will have sex with a 28-33 year old woman, but fuck putting a ring on that depreciated asset. If it was a 28 year old Saudi Princess and I become Saudi royalty and get to fuck and shit on Instagram whores yeah I will put a ring on that, but some common bitch? Fuck no.
    Those dudes probably promise these Tinder girls rose petals and diamonds, fuck them a few times and then avoid their text messages.
    I am kind of on the same page you are as far as having kids and getting serious with a chick. Make money in America, open an account on the Cook Islands, go to Brazil or some other Third world country and find a beautiful girl living in desperate poverty buy a place there and have kids with her. Use the power of western currency to dominate the relationship, provide opportunity for my children and have other beautiful financially desperate women on the side to keep my sex life interesting. Most men would do this if they could, but few will admit it.

    • sark July 22, 2015 at 3:31 pm #

      Still killing it I see

  2. Alasko July 19, 2015 at 2:18 pm #

    Beautiful piece… yes, you are the best.

  3. mary kate and ashley olsen's gaping-wide identical cuntholes July 22, 2015 at 12:05 pm #

    he does it again. bravo.

  4. The Mainstream Critical Establishment July 27, 2015 at 8:45 am #

    Book quality …… EXCELLENT GOOD FAIR
    Author quality …. CULT BLOGGER CULT WRITER

    Congratulations. There were no real clunkers, the first and the last ones were best. Autopilot was my favorite; my compliments on the last sentence.


  1. Morning Meditation | - July 19, 2015

    […] Morning Meditation […]

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