My new collection The Pussy is out. Buy The Pussy, get The Pussy, tell your mom about The Pussy, etc.
If my sister reads this she’ll try to get you fired, she says. Even with the fake name. She gets vengeful about this sort of thing.
Well what can you do. What I said is true. So I said it. Maybe someone will get me fired. Maybe I should have started anonymous. Not shown anyone my shit. Not put up Youtube videos of my face for radio and voice for silent film. But: some people find me to fire me. Some people find me to fuck me. I want to get fucked more than I don’t want to get fired.
I have a zero drag lifestyle. An unmarried childless drone who rents. No girlfriend, no serious prospect for a girlfriend, no serious prospect for having a serious prospect for a girlfriend, ever. I’m 40. Every male relative dies at 67 from cancer. Before that their minds slip from chemo. Maybe 15 years left of being sharp, if you can call this sharp. My hips are going. My eyes. My hair going white and I have the ball sac of a 120 year old man. You can’t beat me. I’ve already lost. If your sister gets me fired I’ll stand by the banks of the river, and wait.
Part of me would welcome being doxxed. Fired. The greatest job I’ve ever had still sucks. Allows me material possessions I don’t fucking need. I could pack all this shit in a pit and toss a match on it and go sleep on the ground somewhere and laugh. Life leaving me. Time speeds up. Days upon days I don’t remember. Getting old; it’s already over, I do not fucking care what happens as long as it’s not a maiming or prison– anything that takes my freedom. A great job– I make enough that I pay enough taxes to support another one of me. He’s in a Section 8 studio up in the Hotel Cecil. Some haunted spot downtown where they find suicides in the rooftop water tank. Disability checks cashed into Steel Reserve the instant they arrive. I pray that that’s where the money goes. The other me. The happier one. Find me. Fire me. I do not fucking care.
Last thing I was living for was my cat. The neighbor’s pit bull shook him to death. No reason I can’t leave except being scared about retirement money. So I can retire with no memories of a good life; I spent the whole god damn time working. Worked like a dog since I was fucking fourteen. I’ll die alone, slowly, in the worst way imaginable. That is a certainty.
I hate this city. I hate it in my bones because of the women. Not one good woman in LA. Probably not one in America. They live to abuse you. They live to make you dance. Then they have the sheer balls to accuse you of entitlement.
Or: I love the land but hate its people. Great birds here but my rent is over sixteen grand a year for a stucco building. Cinder block walls around the parking lot. Family of three upstairs playing tympani on the pergo floors at 3AM– and that’s a steal. My landlady has dementia. She’ll die and the place will be bought up in aggregate by Berkshire Hathaway. Rent will instantly blow up to market rate, which is to say 88% of median household income. Increased cost of living makes money meaningless, always. There is always market efficiency. I. e. whatever you have they’ll take– the Rothschilds, the Waltons, the reptilians, whatever you call them– they. The inherited money people. The interest of the interest of four hundred years of slave ship money people absolutely will extract any inefficiency aka money freedom happiness.
Destroy my job, destroy society, destroy the planet. I have nothing to lose. I am connected to nothing. Find me fuck me fire me– fucking free me.
I have a 401K. It did not go up with good news in the stock market. It will go down with Brexit. Because of course. When oil prices rise, gas prices rise the same day. When oil prices fall, gas prices take months to catch up. Of course. There’s some wonky reason some second-tier ivy schlump can explain to you on CNBC. Some NPR twat who was driven to field hockey practice in a toast colored Volvo 240 wagon with a Choate Rosemary Hall sticker on it can explain over piano jazz, but any bum can tell you: they want more money, and they can take it. The government exists only to speed this up. The government is hideous money spergs hypnotizing fetal alcohol syndrome snake handlers. TED talk tax cheats hustling the background cast of Denny’s fight videos.
If you want to predict the future, ask what makes heirs more money. What takes the masses’ time, freedom, happiness. That’s what will happen. We had a movement to free women. It multiplied the misery of both sexes. Women forced to work, men forced to work more when women don’t want a man who doesn’t have more than her. Pure evil.
What will you do if you get fired. You could write full time. No I fucking can’t. You can’t write and eat. Nobody reads. Every web site, every publishing house is Buzzfeed. Liars forever chasing shrinking money. The whole culture, sweatshops of pure shit run by reptilians for aspiring reptilians. I’ll clean toilets.
Someone may get me fired. I may or may not fuck them up. But I’ll for sure make them think I might. Every minute of the shoe not dropping another minute I could be prepping to hurt them bad. Really I’ll be beating off. I won’t say to who. She’s the type to get revenge.