Diary: Will the Weekend Be Wasted

Will the weekend be wasted. I could go out with–- what the fuck is her name again. Colleen. First date since Bud died. It’d be a waste. Before I sleep with a man I make him show me test results, she says. It happens that I carry negative STD papers in my briefcase. But they’re from October. Who have I fucked since then. Angela. Kerry who I choked. Someone else, some other Tinder Asian. But maybe not. Angela existing has relieved my need for women. We text 200 times a day. Me existing hasn’t stopped her from fucking every man in Texas. What can you do.

Anyway Colleen makes you show paperwork. Even then she makes you wear a condom. Says she’s never fucked without one. After the bar we made out in the back of the Subaru. I got her pants off. Very tough in the confines. Women, please wear a skirt. She’s– not quite a radical feminist. But she supports Clinton for identitarian reasons. She has armpit hair and a thick copper bush as a political statement. She’s over 30 but her cunt after making out at the bar, fingerfucking in the back seat– the best pussy juice in history. No men’s germs have sullied her biome.

For us to have a future I’d have to believe her condom thing is bullshit. I’d have to be the guy who gets her hot eating pussy. Slip it in raw and ruin her. I’m never wearing a condom again, ever. She’s terrified of STDs because she’s a germ freak. Because her gay friend has HIV. Heresy to admit that gays get AIDS because they fuck a thousand strange men in toilets, huge black dongs rasping bloody shitty assholes dry. That’s where AIDS comes from. Middle class Caucasian with a 401(k) ought to worry more about birth at 40. Your kid having autism. The Zika virus of the rich. I will say she has giant Irish milk jugs. I could palpate her jiggling white tits all night. I forget if they have those blue veins that big white girl titties get. But there are freckles. After five Koreans and a Mexican you want that boiled ham.

Maybe I could pull it off. But who am I now. I respect other people’s wishes. I respect women, which means we’ll never speak again. Too bad. I like her.

Who am I now. Am I someone who kills his neighbors’ dog. Meatball over the fence with some nice window glass in it. It’s a wood fence, find a gap in the slats. Get a stick nice and sharp. The dog attacks the stick and I just jam it hard into the back of its mouth. His ruined red throat. I want to smash out all his teeth. Get the axe, take its back legs. I want to do it in front of their kid. Maybe wait till he’s old enough to form memories.

Who am I now. Not someone who kills the neighbors’ dog. I’m someone who lets the neighbors’ dog kill my cat and I just take it, I guess. My sponsor talked me out of reporting it to animal control. Strike one is nothing. Strike two: city kills the dog. I knew I would take no revenge, when Bud died. I had a feeling that felt like it came from God. Let there be no more suffering from this. They’re nice people. They’ll keep their fucking dog inside.

I don’t want another animal to die. Someone else’s pet, because of this thing that was an accident. But it’s an accident because a pit bull can’t make decisions. It can’t make decisions because it’s a killing machine. Killing is its job. Being your pet is its hobby. He knew he did something bad, they said. I wanted them to know I’d do something bad. In a week that dog will be gone, I wanted to tell the guy. How it goes down is up to you. I want to cut up their kid in front of the dog. Who am I now.

The cat’s gone. Scattered his ashes. Pair of mourning doves moved into the yard a day later, in the space where he sat. I come close. They’re not afraid of me. Some part of them knows.