Good morning. What do I not want to do today.
- Trim my ball hairs
- Pray the same three stupid prayers from Alcoholics Anonymous texts. Offer myself to God unselfishly. Volunteer my entire being to be of service, etc.
- Drive to the library to pick up my homeless smelly friend for the AA pancake breakfast. Hear about his homeless smelly life. He has a girlfriend. A young daughter. The girlfriend is moving to Vegas and taking him. He’ll have a free apartment, to be with his beautiful child. Who knows what the girlfriend looks like. He’s black so probably a fat white woman. But even if she’s ugly– it’s like the way I can get stiff for an Asian even if she looks like a humanoid tree fungus. Like a myconid from the D & D Underdark. Chubby white broads just do it for them. Let me repeat this: he has a girl who loves him, who he is attracted to. I do not. He sleeps next to a dumpster in the library parking lot. Give a him a ride. Ask him to help me with the pots. He’ll ask me for money.
- Go to the god damn pancake breakfast. I’m an AA General Service Representative. Some joiner bullshit my sponsor emotionally battered me into. Go once a month for two hours, hear cockeyed hairspray drinkers squabble about Robert’s Rules of Order. Also, five hour quarterly Area Committee meetings. Five hour quarterly Area Assembly meetings. All in it’s every other fucking weekend for a two year commitment. Every event just more hideous gin blossom faced old people pressganging you into further committees and forced voluntarism. They want your whole life. The worst part is I never have an excuse. Nothing better to do. I wish I had AIDS so I’d be too sick to go. The district GSRs are responsible for the pancake breakfast, so I’m on the hook for the whole four hour affair. I’m in charge of cleanup afterwards. It will be attended by hideous pathetic old people. Certainly not attractive young girls. Nothing is attended by attractive young girls. Afterwards, the fucking pots. Get bossed around by the agitated cunt who’s really into GSR, who has big tits but clothes that cover them, who is married but you can tell her husband can’t stand her so she immerses herself in extracurriculars like this garbage pancake breakfast to escape. These people, these fucking Tracy Flicks in life, honestly they just need a good beating. I want more Syrian refugees so they’ll marry this kind of woman and just kick the shit out of them all day. Anything to keep them off my Saturday morning. Wouldn’t mind suckin on those titties though.
- The gym. Chest shoulders triceps trapezius. Only been going two times a week for a month. Instantly I’m flabby white jelly. Arm and shoulder like the withered wing of a Zankou chicken left too long by the heat lamp. The gym for the one in ten chance a woman might see me naked for five minutes. To maintain any kind of deltoid mass as a Caucasian– 4-6 hours a week of searing hot agony or you’re fucked. Meanwhile every black guy gets a nineteen inch dick and twin beach balls popping from the tips of his clavicles at age ten. What the fuck were these slave breeders doing. Why did you make a master race of giant donged ultra high testosterone studs. Breed ricedicked pussies, you fools. But then what do you expect, no one smart ever lived in the south.
- Call and assist three AA newcomers. It has no effect. The one guy I was trying to help fell off doing speed. Meanwhile he has a beautiful Colombian wife and a child and let me repeat: I do not. Guys who relapse once a week and break light bulbs to smoke meth have infinitely better lives than me. What the fuck does he need my advice for. If you’re reading this: don’t stop doing drugs.
- Seek a mate so I don’t die alone. You want to know what’s out there: a fat pregnant woman on Tinder gets a thousand times more love than me. Yes I’m pregnant if you can’t use your eyes. Fat, pregnant and a cunt. Yes I’m pregnant and fuck you for asking about it. I still get to have cool guys call me pretty and take my picture. I’m so innately worthless as a man that an utter imbecile gestating some shitty DJ’s parasite matters more than a billion of me. I can barely get a right swipe. Dating is miserable frustrating garbage. Yet I’m doomed to do it forever. I must squirt mayonnaise into people I hate or suffer. God is evil.
I also don’t want to call my mom. Pay my bills. Post on my faggot ass blog. Yet somehow my To Do List exactly matches my Hate List. Just like every day. What are the odds.
All right. Breakfast wasn’t bad. Homeless buddy helped me haul the Katrina sandbag sized sack of pancake mix. He’ll stay sober another day. The OG cholos from the halfway house made short work of chair stacking. The cunty tit girl was a godsend. She saved my ass on cleanup. I had no idea what I was doing. She was sweet and worked really hard. My ball sac hairs crisp and white as James Brolin’s gleaming post-Pensacola:Wings of Gold era beard. Engorged pumpkinseed deltoids plumped and rippling.
God is with me. Racism is bad. I was wrong about everything. Got a right swipe. Maybe it’s her. Let’s go spray a load in a fetus’s face.