Finally someone on Twitter asked me: did you quit the internet.
I quit Twitter so I could play Witcher 3. And because all I could look at were assholes. I’d imagine them finding my web site and making fun of me. I’m as sensitive as the flayed corpse out of Hellraiser. I need to believe that I’m some great genius. Except when I read my own shit 99% of it makes me sick. I couldn’t read negativity about me, and I can’t even read negativity about people like me. I start imagining it’s about me. Spend all day thinking I suck. All of twitter is negative shit about people like me.
Obviously I still check my notices.
Done with my web site. The fake name. Looking at my page views, which are in the toilet. 81 people read my site this morning. 1 million people read Mike Cernovich’s site in the last five minutes, because he’s not afraid of getting slagged. You’re either marketing constantly or you’re nothing. To market you must be marketable. People are too stupid for my sophisticated prose poems about buttfucking a tweaker.
I hate writing. It’s too hard and takes too long. Nobody reads. But then all other art forms are garbage. No comedian will be remembered. Paintings are decorations. Theater is for gay idiots. Only writing matters. Maybe I’m just pissed because the guy who made my cover got a call from a publisher off it. I didn’t.
Have to come back to this later. Now I have go to the porn star 24 hour STD place in Sherman Oaks. When I landed in Peru El Chuco texted me. One of his catamites had chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Thus me as well. She power bottomed me with her dry asshole and I briefly washed my dick with hand soap. I was sober and the sun was still out. She was beautiful enough that you could just look at her and not pick her apart. Bottle blonde but of Mexican extraction. Jehovah’s Witness.
I quit Twitter because I was hung up on dumb shit. Online rape arguments. The Kurt Metzger UCB rape affair. I joined a Facebook group where improv actresses accuse comedians of rape. Male allies post supportive Medium articles. I hate it but I can’t stop looking. Thinking: these people are all writers. How the fuck are there huge dark secrets in “the community.” It means not one of them talks about the interesting part of their lives. Raping people. Getting raped.
You can’t hold back the real shit. Until Louis CK’s show is about him jacking off on Garfunkel and Oates’ faces it’s a lie. Maybe my shit sucks but believe me I’m not sandbagging. For example: I jerk off thinking about 13 year olds regularly. So do you. All men, on a cellular level, desperately want to rape young teens. There are no exceptions.
A new improv guy got accused of mass rapes. Kurt Metzger antagonized people about it. They tried to get him fired. He kept going. It was nuts. I looked at his Wikipedia entry. He was a Jehovah’s Witness. This explained his self destructive passion. When I worked nights in a candle factory, half the floor crew were JW’s. There was a family, a white woman with a fat 16 year old daughter. The black guys loved her. There was Steve- wispy weird little blonde guy. His wife Deb, a Wampanoag who carried a jagged Rambo knife on her ankle in case Steve tried to beat her up again. The fat girl wasn’t allowed to ask Steve to stop the conveyor belt. Deb told me he’d been excommunicated for swearing. Or maybe drinking coffee. Beating his wife hadn’t done it. Michael Jackson was a Jehovah’s witness. He beat off to children being raped and eaten by raccoons. Jackson Stockpiled Gruesome Pornography, read the headline. Did you hear about the horny farmer. He gruesome pornography.
Jehovah’s Witnesses are 100% mentally ill rapists, wife beaters, raccoon porn obsessives and hookers who need to get choked with their own shit to feel loved. How could that not fuck you up. But then I agree with Metzger. Who knows if Dillyberg raped anybody.
Hours thinking about this kind of shit. That’s what Twitter is for. Stupid people arguing. Stupider people torturing themselves reading it. There is not one good tweet.
In Lima I had to text the other girls. Dong who captured Pokemon in my apartment. The British girl with the tits. If you’re reading this, don’t think I think of you this way. I have to talk about you like this because the one time I posted details on a girl the commenters found her. She was a porn star, but still. People find you. Girls I date have rich lives but you’re the British girl with tits. I’m popular enough that anyone I describe might be stalked. 1/1000th as popular as you need to make money. Not so popular that my book beats half a week’s pay. Popular enough that Elliot Rodger message board weirdos find my apartment. A sweet spot.
They took it well. Made my connection to Cusco and used my Pimsleur car stereo Spanish to find a Farmacia. Bought azithromycin. Read the instructions wrong and almost took three times the recommended dose. Sat in my hostel room waiting for the pills to twist up my guts with broken glass like the internet told me. Nothing happened. Maybe they were fake. Or just enough juice to make my gonorrhea resistant. Flagellates slowly dissolve my dickflesh. Sweet spot.
At LAX I’d read the Roosh V Forum. It said Cusco is the easiest pussy town on the continent. In my hostel I read that after azithromycin you still can’t fuck for 7 days. There you have it, I thought. Turned out not to matter. On the street I caught no attention, despite being a foot and a half taller than anyone in Peru. My slave owner eyes.
You have to go to a nightclub to get Cusco pussy. I’m 40 and go to bed at 9PM. Even when I’m not getting up at 4 to climb Macchu Picchu or observe macaws in the jungle. You go in Club Mama Africa and gringo hunters make out with you, says the internet. They’re college girls from Lima. Would have been nice but who cares. It’s another Mexican.
This piece was supposed to be about my spiritual awakening. Saying goodbye to my dead father in the Andean cloud forest. But I don’t check Twitter and look what comes out even now. Another day maybe. For now, The Witcher.
The Pussy has never been so cheap.