Archive | November, 2015

Finally, Some Good News (Part 1)

25 Nov
pomeranian shaved

image stolen from

What Do You Do

He was on Tinder. What do you do, she asked.

He was a secretary. His company provided data driven solutions to optimize cross platform branded content. He might have done something else but he’d spent 20 years drunk. The want ad said room for growth.

He built Powerpoints. When a client was on the phone he hit spacebar. Today, a Webex with Wentworth. The media planning agency. They represented the the Clear and Clean Skin Care division of the Nonmedicated Facial Cleansers and Body Washes/ Poufs division of the Consumer Packaged Goods division of Johnson and Johnson. Wentworth was a subsidiary of UAG, which was a subsidiary of Group J, which was a subsidiary of PWW Group. PWW was a holding company based in Paris. Chartered in Ireland for tax purposes. PWW bought advertising time from television stations en masse. Sold it on arbitrage markets it created. The purpose of UAG and thus Wentworth was to help create demand for advertising time. PWW could then buy low and sell high. This was illegal in America. All advertising agencies were therefore subsidiaries of 3 conglomerates out of Europe. Continue reading

Reader Mailbag: Have You Had Your Prostate Milked During Orgasm

21 Nov

res detail

No. I’ve had my prostate milked by a urologist to diagnose infection. Don’t want girls in my ass. And you don’t see many girls with such low self esteem that they’ll put in the effort. Or any.

Did have a date last week who licked my armpits. Tongued down my taint like a giraffe reaching for a high branch. She mentioned ass eating. I wondered if I ought to present. You don’t get it often. Maybe you should catch a falling star. Continue reading

Protected: Reader Mailbag: Do You Have a High Sex Drive

19 Nov

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Protected: Diary: Gender Studies

15 Nov

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Dear Angela

11 Nov

coot ripple


I wrote another thing about you. The point of it was I wouldn’t be jealous anymore. Jealous of your stupid friend who comes in my comments, hooting about how much he tears up your ass. You fuck men for cash and prizes. Some of them are famous. Inventors. Spies. I don’t care about any of them. But this guy got to me. He has what I want with you. Come over a few nights a week and party. I can’t party anymore. Too old. Have to get up early. Write. Then I can’t write. I feel like less than a man. Fucking another girl didn’t take it away. Maybe liking another girl would. I want to like a girl like I like you. Continue reading

Morning Diary: Standard Time

10 Nov

How to describe this feeling. Hollow. Normally I’d despair about the work day. About girls. Sucks but at least it’s a feeling. Today: don’t care. I’ll work demeaning jobs forever. Don’t care. Never have a relationship. Don’t care. No wife, no kids: good. To create another being that could feel this way: worse than Hitler. My dick would make 80 years of pain. Cauterizing my nuts off in a campfire would be a mercy to the world. Continue reading

Reader Mailbag: Do You Need a Muse?

8 Nov
image stolen from

image stolen from

I need two million dollars so I can fuckin retire. I can make a muse. I could fall in love with a fucking couch cushion. Find a way to think the couch cushion didn’t love me back. The couch cushion is fucking other guys. I’ll never find another couch cushion like her.

Any woman can be a muse. Just like any woman can be a fuck. Just project your self hatred and inadequacy on her. In my Ted Kazcynski dream cabin I could make an elk my muse. Why won’t this elk return my texts.

Every girl I half like is a muse. Because I drive her away with neediness. What I want is: cuddle on the couch. Have babies. Cook fuckin Betty Crocker pork chops. I want to love and care for someone. Women are appalled by this. So no matter where I start—we could be talking about someone who spends money to be near me—I’ll get hung up on her. Afraid she’ll never like me. Afraid I’ll never write again. What made her like me will go away. What will be left. Clark Kent, but ugly. Gray collar small dick office nebbish. My true self.

Morning Diary: A Rich Inner Life

8 Nov

Try to remember the dead can’t hear your thoughts. Try to remember there’s no hell. If there is, you’re not going there for writing on even numbered lines in a notebook. Your mother won’t get in a car crash with her face on fire because you didn’t climb stairs properly. All people must suffer like this. They just don’t talk about it. Most able to put it aside. No one goes through the day having normal thoughts. No thoughts at all. Minds just blank drywall. Everyone grew up picturing swarming heaps of black crustaceans. Centipedes under the table waiting for the edge of a finger to brush them so they can latch on. Crawl up your arms. Armored mandibles strip your flesh down. Not to kill you. Just taking skin so your face looks burned forever. Unimaginable pain over every part of you forever. Everyone thinks this constantly. Or is it just you. Anyway good morning.