Need to write something. But I fucking hate writing. I have nothing. Thoughts too scattered. Never write anything good again. So what. I’ve done more than most. I’ll never be satisfied with this shit. Spent last night pitching AA to crazy retarded people in a nuthouse. A fat psychotic meth smoking chola eyeballed me like she wanted the dick, and I thought about it. I sponsor an AA newcomer. I do it by mail because he’s in prison, for murder. Top that St. Francis. Still, when I wake up I just want to take a fucking drink.
I didn’t quit drinking to make things better. I quit because it was no good anymore. I’d drink and still be miserable. I’m just a miserable person. See it in my mother too. Genetic. It’s been the worst year for her relationship with my stepdad, she says. Why. Because he has other shit going on now. He goes to classes and joins political groups where his opinions are respected. Lifts weights; he’s trim and in shape. Reinvented himself as a different person. She hates it. She’s like me.
They retired out here. She makes beautiful pastel drawings. It’s sunny outside and there are flowers. And she’s… what. Ugh, I can’t write about them. Too many people know. I have to start another blog. Another identity, all over again. Then have a select few friends read it. Put it on my OKCupid profile. Get a couple links thrown to it, it builds and builds. Suddenly I can’t write about anyone, again.
The girls all read this. Nelly’s hot but her 2008 Civic is full of Gatorade bottles packed with old cigarette butts. She’d probably drown our baby. Lara Chen is a god damn pain in the ass. Lily has too much money and likes coke and it will kill her. Olivia is too large boned. Annie found a boyfriend and anyway, she’s a fucking teenager. So the right maturity level but too young to lock down. She lives with her parents from Syria. Culturally she might as well be an ISIS bride. She’ll be traded for goats.
Angela, I love her but she’s gonna crack hard. I don’t want to be in the room when it happens.
I can say this shit about girls who read this. I can say they’re murderers and baby rapers worse than Hitler. If I implied they were fat they wouldn’t speak to me.
There’s an office next door full of hot Filipinas. I thought: what luck, but it turns out they’re 39 years old. They have kids entering college. I’m too old to have children. Obsessed now with the fact that my genes will be extinguished. But: good. I wouldn’t want to take care of them. And my mom is miserable and nuts and I’m miserable and nuts and I don’t think they make a happy enough idiot to breed that out, even in the Philippines. Any kid I create will spend his days wanting to hang himself.
I want my kids to not to be like me. I’d want to stay with their mother. So they could have relationships. I’d want more than one. Brothers and sisters so they don’t sit in a basement alone painting Dungeons and Dragons miniatures. No one to play Dungeons and Dragons with. I’d teach them languages, all this other shit– it comes back to ways they won’t be like me. If it’s gonna be that way why have them be mine. What am I worth genetically. Well, I’m smart. My prose style is… what’s the word I’m looking for. When everyone else sucks. Every successful writer on the internet is garbage and the failures, don’t get me started. What’s the word when you have a talent that comes to you naturally while others labor to get nowhere like a dog trying to play the fucking piano… what’s the word for that. Oh yeah: broke.
What am I worth genetically. The brain, if you could cut emotions out of it. Tall. Decent lung capacity. Good eyes. But fucked up face huge nuts small cock. I live in terror of what my daughter would look like. A pump and dump for some drunk pig, if that.
Better to just squirt a load in retarded jungle teen. My mother hates men. Because her father tried to kill her. My mother hates men so I hate women so I’ll hate my daughter and so on. Whereas my fatherless Filipino children would be beautiful. They’d be tall. They’d think their dad was rich. They’d think they were Harry fucking Potter with some lost messianic lineage. This myth would inform their lives as Filipino soap stars and five foot nine point guards in the Filipino NBA. Just start fresh breeding with nubile primitives. The genes really aren’t so bad. There’s darkness there but part of it’s just the cycle of crazy. What if we broke it. I mean look at me. I’m getting better for Christ’s sake.