My new collection The Pussy is out. Crack open The Pussy, tear up The Pussy, The Pussy is available used, etc.
How about some positivity. Therapy’s working. Two sessions, we got to blaming my parents. I have homework, to think about how my parents fucked me up. This morning I conceived of them as ordinary people. It made me sick. I’m like them. Lower middle class tax payer. Throwaway sentence in the history books, in aggregate with other schlumps. The smallfolk dwelled in smelly apartments, paid bills, jerked off feverishly waiting for their Family Pak of chicken to cook. Still, they found meaning in love and children. Except one guy.
I’m one of God’s perfect creatures. Here to experience beauty in the world. Moved by this I went out in public. Sat in a shady patch in the park. Every conversation around me: Pokemon. Plus there’s a disturbing trend now of black men and Asian women. White men used to be their “bad boy,” but they’ve correctly surmised that we too are weak small penis nebbishes. Fashionable Kanye looking blacks will absorb all world pussy. Even Asians, the only good kind. Pussy capitalism reaches new nadirs. 13 illuminati suck up all world capital and a thousand black Chads hoard all American pussy. So be it. All I want is a flesh robot that looks like a Japanese 14 year old. How has no one made this. They have apps for every god damn thing. I’ll give her the Voigt Kampf test while reaming her. The tortoise bit will make her pussy clench.
Some positivity. I can breathe. I don’t have cancer– except typing“cancer” probably gives me cancer. Well if I have cancer I don’t know about it. Same as not having it.
Good haircut. When I wear my tight gay T shirt my latissimi dorsi ripple in a manner that would please women, if my face were perfect and I earned at least $2.5 million a year. I have a date later. Asian; name something like “Dong.” I’ll run my tongue over every salty inch of Dong on my flagging mattress. Smear the smell and taste of Dong over my sweaty body. Can’t stop looking at pictures of Dong. Dong penetrated me deeply. Who knows. She’s enthusiastic about the date. So she’ll be worse than her pics. But I will accept Dong. I’ll stroke Dong rapidly until Dong convulses and pukes, et cetera.
Therapy reminded me– I need to change shit. When I got sober and found God my prayers meant something. Helping others helped me. Now prayers mean as much as the instructions on the ramen packet. I know that my help does nothing. Every addict I’ve reached out to has relapsed and is worse off. I saw a guy I sponsored lurking by the Coinstar machine at Vons, headphones on, waiting to scrimp lost nickels off the rack geeked out on meth. My sponsee in prison wrote me back. Said: I got paroled so I’m not going to do more work inside. He’ll get out and kill people.
Shit stops working. You have to find new shit. This includes God. You must find a new God or a new way to experience God constantly. Just like you can’t jerk off to the same Xhamster pussy. Or the same nationality of pussy, or the same species fucking the pussy– you can’t say the same prayers and do the same kindly acts. You need a mule raping a dwarf. Even then you get sick of them all being Brazilian. Too few countries poor enough for horse fucking but rich enough for video. You have to confuse the the muscle.