I stole this title from some other writer she’s fucking now. She sent me one of his poems. I had to beg her. She does not want to discuss her love life. Afraid it will make me like her less. Well it did, but the poem didn’t make me jealous. That would have been a problem. He has another one called Dirty Mexican Twat, she said. Parenthetically: it’s not about me.
This one is about you.
What did you expect, you fucking fool. Can’t make a ho into a housewife. Well I’m a ho and someone could easily make me a housewife. Anyone under 35 without birth defects. Anyone halfway interesting. Who reads a book once in a while. Or even not. I just want a bedwarmer. A hole to put babies in. I don’t need a woman who speaks English, or even speaks at all. I need a woman from 1232 AD who can’t read. Stays home. Doesn’t go out taking every dick from every guy in every band, every fucking bartender. All I need is one woman who likes me more than other men. She doesn’t exist. I’m not special enough. The only one who feels this way is my mother.
You made me text that girl from AA. She has less than one year of sobriety. Off limits to the ethical alcoholic. I went after a newcomer once, my sponsor tells me. Two weeks later she hung herself. I held hands with a girl from the only place you ever meet girls. In the morning, a bloody hook hung from the car bumper. An AA girl takes a thousand lifetimes of gnarly dick but somehow touching mine will kill her.
Still, he’s right. Sobriety is good. My sex habits: bad. Don’t let them touch. Already things are fucked up in the rooms. Showed this site to one sober woman last year. She showed it to another who showed it to another and so on. One day I say hi to this girl and she gives me a look like I burned her kids alive. Is she telepathic, I think. How else does she look like she can read my dirty thoughts. What could possibly cause this. I’m a stupid, stupid man.
Had to text her because you walked off the plane and onto another dick. While my bed was still warm. While I was thinking: holy shit I can still feel love. Also: now I’ve fucked a pretty girl and I get to be alone without pain.
You tell me what I already know and I get to do what I want. Which is cry about what we had. What about what we had, you sex addicted semi-pro who was in town on some old guy’s money. But that’s bullshit, calling you that. You’re an extraordinary person. You’re just sick like me. What I felt for you was real. To believe otherwise is to believe love is impossible. Which is probably true. But comprehending it is like grasping the true size of the universe. Your mind isn’t built for it.
Meanwhile my organs are failing. Could be gallbladder worms from the Philippines. Swimming in the filthy river, legs lashed up from steering the moto into some brush thicket out of Predator. No turning radius on those things, and water buffalo in the road. I have not google imaged the worms. Don’t want to shatter my faith that they’re spiny armored things with pincers. Chittering abyssal monsters like from a black smoker, or something that lays in wait for a thousand years in the Marianna Trench. Waiting on a whale carcass to drop so it can feast for a century and grow five school buses long. Really they’re some featureless nematode. Still. They can impregnate themselves. Chew each other’s heads off when they mate; their five sets of hydra-headed squirming barbed genitals. Change sex if there are no girls around. Whatever it is has a better sex life than me. It should start a blog. Someday I’ll get a text from you, you’re engaged to a worm.
In the end you gave me what I want: to be miserable. So I can keep writing shit that brings more girls to make me miserable. Once in a while I think I can’t sustain this. Some day one will feel something back. Enough to not snap at the next shiny object. For your plan to work forever you’d have to live in some Twilight Zone hell where sexual anarchy had progressed so far it made human connection literally inconceivable. Well I’ve got good news.