Holy shit, meditating was a mistake. My spirit is open to the word of God, or the vast unknown or whateverthefuck. Mind is a blank chalkboard. Repelled by the act of thinking words. This is not gonna be helpful for writing. Picturing the critical voice perched on my shoulder. He takes the form of (REDACTED) from weird twitter. Thank God I’ve read his longform work and it’s boring stupid internet garbage. Making fun of political pundits. If you even write the word ”pundit” you suck. Another morning when I can’t write. Some mornings, all mornings. Well who cares. What do you want, to make a living off it? What do you have to express. Nothing. Fine, let’s jerk off.
Waking up at 5AM doesn’t guarantee inspiration. Even my god damn hobby is too fucking frustrating. And don’t tell me to stop complaining. Don’t tell me poor people have it harder. Black people have it harder. I’m alone and I own nothing. Yes, I have clean drinking water. What good does it do me. I have nothing and every poor person on Earth either gets to beat his wife or sits around huffing glue. I have to work, in order to have nothing. Give me the fucking worms.
Abolish work. Forget it, all this civilization shit. What do we have it for– to get rid of infant mortality. To have 99% of babies survive and to have people live on into useless miserable old age. To have stockpiles of food– which doesn’t work. We just breed until there’s famine. We’ll never colonize other planets. We’ll never build a fake planet of our own with metal mined from asteroids by robots. We’ll never evolve into superbeings– we’re at the mercy of the universe which will itself just collapse, annihilating every living accident. So forget it.
Maybe I’m stupid and a bad writer. I can’t think anymore. Can’t think because I haven’t slept. Because I’m getting old. Because my legs hurt from squats, because I smoked too many cigarettes– now two and a half cigarettes is a wild night. Wake up with a sour feeling in my eyeballs and dirt in the bottom of my lungs. Sobriety. You can’t get high but you still get hung over. Prayer and helping others: pure shit next to the sweet relief of those first two to eighteen drinks. If you get sober when it’s not your absolute last resort, you’re insane. If you have any other option– get thrown in jail, drink pruno out of a colostomy bag, D grade jail cafeteria orange juice pulp fermented with yeast from the taint of an old Crip’s streaked underwear– if that makes you feel .001% better than normal: pick that. AA only works when booze stops making you happy.
Your body outsmarts you in its plan to doom you to misery. The chemicals you put in give diminishing returns. Too bad, because being sober hasn’t helped my creativity. It hasn’t helped my love life. Both fucked worse than before. It’s helped my family life, which– who cares. It’s helped my economic productivity. I’ve been lifted out of working poor, with a net worth of negative ten thousand dollars. Now I’m lower middle class with a net worth of positive four thousand dollars. Whoop de fuckin doo. And I bought that by switching out of a “cool” industry where I worked on movies and TV shows you love to total obscurity. There is no dorkier job than mine. No work more subservient, less prestigious. I want to murder people who ask what do you do. I look at shit at a computer and talk into a phone until it’s time to go home, fuckstick. That’s what we all do.
At least I don’t have to read scripts anymore. Spec scripts with a ticking clock from some lying agent. A competitive situation. Awful young adult books and rich Jewish women’s divorce memoirs. Any person who writes for film or television, or who writes the sort of books meant to be adapted into films or television shows, is a garbage lying whore who should be publicly burned alive. That should be what’s on TV. Just one channel. Men who write The Big Bang Theory and women who write pink cover pearl necklace and high heels books, given screaming to R’hllor’s flames. You can make an exception for George R. R. Martin. His shit is good.
Booze stopped making me feel good. Coke stopped making me feel good. Instead I have to work this absurd L. Ron Hubbard program where I’m a better brother friend and neighbor. Organize pancake breakfasts. Counsel at risk teens who I secretly want to fuck or beat up. Be of service to my boss and a ray of sunshine to my colleagues. I’m becoming a good person and it makes me sick. A pathetic substitute for the real happiness of being half in the bag, blowing fat chunky rails and yammering all night about my page views in Congo to some dumb pimply Amber Rose looking cunt from the downtown Standard pool.
Poor people are happier than me because they can impregnate multiple women and beat their wives. People in the Philippines who live in sewers are happier because they can fucking give up. There’s no way you’ll ever have money there. They got that system from the Spanish where two guys in suits own all the land. They just flog the other sixty million people for not picking sugar fast enough while their wives get plastic surgery. It’s a curse to have opportunity. You’re haunted by this idea that if you just work a little harder you might make it. If you could just grind out 1% more. That dream is a tool to keep you alive in the crab bucket. Crank up a stock owned by someone who fucking inherited it. You will never have enough money to just fucking relax. But they make you believe you might. The thing they do in hell is make you think you might get out.
I need kids. I’ll impregnate the next girl who fucks me. Just like I took the first job offer when unemployment ran out. Some lucky Tinder date. She’ll have an abortion probably. But maybe not. I’ll talk her out of it. Or I won’t; I’ll come to my senses.
Anyway the next one is getting it. I never use condoms and they never use birth control. Sometimes they ask me to strap up. Usually not, but the last one did. So I grudgingly put one on. Pantomimed fucking her with it. Then got hard again laying on top of her rubbing my tip on her pussy until she got wet enough and fucked her bare. There was a moment she gave up. Was it because she was hot enough, or was she just tired of fighting. Will you cum in my mouth, she said. Maybe she was afraid I’d cum in her. Or maybe she likes it in the mouth, who knows. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself and fucking me isn’t such a disaster. Sex with me is not always rape. Maybe she just got horny. And just because I made her horny doesn’t mean I’m a rapist. I’m preoccupied with rape from reading the internet too much. 75% of online writing is about rape. I think if a girl once said no in 1989 and I fucked her last week it’s rape. A yes can be withdrawn at any time. A no is forever. So if she says, when we’re getting out of her car to walk back through the park with the owls and into my apartment, if she says: I don’t want to sleep with you, which everyone who has ever slept with me has said, and then if I make out with her with her back against the pine tree and then eat her pussy on the bed and get it in– I’m a rapist. I’m a rapist because I took actions that made her horny enough to want to fuck me. No one could ever just want me. No one could ever be lying in the beginning. Being coy. The bedrock principle is: no woman ever wants to fuck me. Whenever I’ve done it it’s been a trick, or rape. Anyway I want to have kids now. Otherwise life has no meaning.
Angela is crazy and she needs a good beating. She got her period. Thank God, she texts. I’ve never been happier to see bloody sheets. The idea of having your baby makes me sick. She needs a good beating and to go in the red tent and do whatever they do in there. Complain. She broke my wall length mirror. She drove my car in the FasTrak lane and I got mailed a ticket. I managed not to spend too much money on her to feed her money/ ego/ exploit men trap but now the taxes are coming due. I managed not beat her up but she managed to get plastered in my house without me and fall into the largest piece of glass she could find. I held back but she walked out with contusions all over her ribs, neck and collarbones anyway. The end was foreordained.
I have a date. I know she reads my web site so I better post something deep and moving and magnificent so she immediately drops her panties. But who cares. I should start fucking whores but I’m too cheap. I should go out to San Bernardino where Greg keeps an apartment full of coke sniffing porn actresses but it’s a drive. I’d need it to plan it. Sex is an impulse. Setting it up in advance, like buying a 5 year CD to have pay for an eight ball. I need pussy to just appear.
I was going to write but I looked at Tinder and my Twitter notices. All thought instantly erased. All it takes is one atom of corruption. Like homeopathic medicine. I might as well take a chopstick and jam it in my tear duct. Push until it hits brain. Now a bunch of Mexicans are doing loud Mexican shit behind me. Hauling ladders around, collecting garbage, throwing old plywood in an illegally parked dumpster. Construction on the neighbor’s house again. He seemed like a cool guy once. I envied his two motorcycles. BMW and a Moto Guzzi. But he’s going bald and getting fat and he walks around muttering to himself. He has money which means his parents have money.
They’re never not doing construction on the house. People who build houses are never done building houses. Never just living there. Always pouring money into cheap loud illegal labor; guys with mustaches who toss glass and plywood around in loud clanging metal dumpsters and then spend their nights circling obscure blocks in 80’s Mazda pickup trucks stacked high with broken TVs and old pressboard dressers. Making garbage and taking garbage.
Have to make a gratitude list.
OK: fuck air fuck water fuck love fuck my family. Fuck money fuck work fuck serving my piece of shit fellows. Fuck God, who is some eldritch transdimensional alien mouth whose food is your suffering. Fuck my friends. Fuck their happiness. You know, the one thing I can’t say fuck it to is my cat. Let’s start there. I’m grateful for my cat.
He’s a great cat. I come home at night and he runs in the parking lot to see me. Follows me in. I comb him. The cleaning person– I would like to say “cleaning lady” for lexical economy here but it was a guy this time, a gay black guy, he seemed nice– anyway this polesmoker hid my cat brush so I started using my comb to groom the cat. He likes it even better. My cat loves to see me, come in and have our little time together at the end of the day. We love each other. Grateful for my cat.
Everything else: well it could be worse. Your job sucks but it could be like your last job. Or every other job before that. But I am profoundly ungrateful to live in a world where work is valued, where people are careerists. I was not meant to be here. This can’t be God’s plan for me.
But then obviously it is. Everything you do is God’s plan. Well fuck you, God– I should have been born in France where people work two hours a week and spend the rest of the time leering at smelly French ass in the copy room. Lingering over meals; rhapsodizing over shaved carrots. I should have been a cave man chucking spears and fucking teens and not knowing it makes babies. Although, any other time in history, I’d be dead. I’m a pathetic weakling. Genetic schwag. Well, good. I should have been dead.
Every instant spent doing things I hate. Except fifteen minutes in the morning to take a shit. Wake up shave get dressed commute work work work work work work work; if you pause for a second you get scared you’ll lose your job. You fucking need one. Otherwise you’re out on the street, sleeping in a tent, getting your shit stolen by tweakers. I gotta get out; God grant me the courage to live in Montana in a Ted Kaszkynski shack. God grant me the courage to start smoking speed and get brain damage and move into a county welfare apartment at the top of the Hotel Cecil. God strike me down but do it painlessly. Driving through Idaho there was this razor sharp 50 foot corkscrew earth tiller overturned on the highway. Came up on it at 95 and just barely swerved for the blade not to be at the exact level of my neck. If I’d been texting. Looking at twitter. If Howard Stern had been playing one of Sal and Richard’s Tradio calls instead of an ad for loans with some Jersey cunt saying you remember me from Shark Tank . If the Sirius XM Grateful Dead Channel had been eight minutes into a mid-late 70’s Help/ Slipknot/ Franklin’s instead of some Bobby song. No work no bills no fear no nothing. But then my poor mother. And someone would have to take care of the cat.
When the cat dies I’m gone. Not to death but to the jungle in a blaze of glory. The dream used to be impregnate as many underage teens as possible. But now– no one else should live this existence. I’ll just suck it up being old and alone. The least selfish thing I could do. Plus God knows I can’t handle baby shit.
Felt a little better after AA last night. This girl Janet, a giant Jewess who shared about her advertising career. Her company contractually committed to unlimited lower thirds. The work is too much and she fears losing it. Her identity as a perfect person. She makes online ads. Terrified to lose getting paid nothing to make things everyone hates. When someone else is suffering I’m happy. God bless her though; she has kind eyes and wears tiny skirts where when the moon is right you can see all the way up to her cunt crack. Big strong thighs. Maybe I’ll pop one off to her later. Her dark Jewy mein. I’ll beat off to her having a hairy taint and asshole, though of course she’s the type to wax.
That’s all it would take not to be sick to death of AA meetings. More girls. More girls under 35, at an attractiveness level of 5.00000001 or above. And my standards, however low you think they are– lower than that. Girls who dress up, like her. Although why would they. The AA men, and me, disgusting jowly old scumbags. Every AA guy looks like they’ve had skin grafts over 90% of their face and the donor was an avocado.
Jean Paul Sartre’s Nausea arrived and it’s unreadable. This book was going to save me. A good new writer. I’d be seen with it in the park. You know he has this reputation, I’d have said. Someone college kids used to read to seem smart. But really he’s underrated… no. Dull fake garbage. Another attempt to steal Notes from Underground. But Dostoevsky knew to come in with a bang. And add whores.
Anyway, today won’t be as bad as yesterday. How could it be.