Diary: The Supreme Gentleman

12 Feb
black-craw

image stolen form aqua-freshwater.blogspot.com

I’ve psyched myself out of writing chapter 4 of Finally, Some Good News. Good. Fuck it. I can’t do it. Suddenly writing a blog post isn’t enough. What you need to feel you’ve written something just escalates. Fuck writing. Take a year off. You’ll never be famous and you’ll never even get laid from it again. Your readers are ingrates and bums. Fuck them all. Write something great and bury it, burn it. Make a statue and hide it behind a wall. Piss on the wall.

Why don’t you write erotic fiction. Why don’t you write horror stories. George Saunders didn’t write his first novel until he was (current age of George Saunders minus two years). And fucking look at this–while I was typing a window popped up prompting me to save. I wasn’t looking. Typed a paragraph into it. Now it’s fucking lost– wait no, here it is.

What’s the lesson here. God takes care of me and everything’s going to be all right? Bullshit. There is no God. Nothing is going to be all right. Jesus Christ what if there’s a fucking afterlife. There’s only hell in my theology. Hell or you’re a ghost meekly trying to get the living to notice as you stay trapped in a one bedroom apartment in a neighborhood where girls used to go, forever. When my cat died– when my cat, the only thing I loved, was violently shaken to death by my fat neighbor’s put bull while I was away at work– I wrote about it. Someone commented with a thing called Rainbow Bridge. It said when you die you go to a meadow. All your pets are waiting for you, reverse aged so they’re in their prime. They don’t hate each other like Bud hated most other animals. They frolic in this meadow until you’re dead. You show up. Prance in the flowers. Walk on a rainbow into some second tier of afterlife. The next meadow. Or the relief of blackness when you’re shut off like a light switch.

Bud and I did frolic in meadows together. I really should kill my neighbor’s dog. But I don’t want to look over in the next meadow and see that fat fuck playing with him.

There are a few good moments, but life is mostly shit. If you’re the sort of person who talks about privilege: I have bad news. I am white, tall, not ugly, heterosexual. I was born with a dick and consider myself a man. I can walk and think and while I’ve had mental illness gnawing my soul incessantly every instant since birth like I’m painted in honey staked next to the fire ants’ nest– I can appear normal in short bursts. I can say good morning to a neighbor walking his dog. I can show up to an office and perform sustained activities that I hate and thus contribute to the tax base. In other words I’m not disabled per se. And yet: life is still mostly shit. Privilege does not mean happiness. When I think about black people’s oppression I just think how great it would be to have huge medial deltoids and a big dick.

I fucked Holly yesterday. Thank God. She asked me to stop but it counts. She asked me to stop because she wants me to rape her. Maybe in a past life but not at 2PM when it’s sunny out. When we’ve been chatting about her dissertation. Sipping herbal tea. She didn’t like it because I wasn’t punching her temple like she wanted. But my dick went into a pussy. Suddenly I don’t think about strapping on a vest of flechettes and red phosphorus and heading to a protest, government building or school. We went for Indian food after. She didn’t eat because she relapsed out of AA and has body dysmorphia. All day she takes prescription speed and writes her dissertation. I texted her because she lives next to Best Buy. I wanted a folding pocket keyboard so I could write on my phone. It was not available.

I have three years of sobriety today. Things have gotten better. At least, for the people around me. For me I’m as miserable as when I was ten years old thinking about hell. Forced to imagine black crustaceans swarming up my arms scissoring off my flesh. Things got better for a minute then regressed below normal. There are still issues to work through. Still growth to be had, my sponsor tells me. He tries to sell me on further twelve step programs. Al-Anon. Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Al-Anon is housewives who congratulate themselves on staying with wife beaters. Something in me smells their weakness. I want to punch them for burning a roast. SLAA, cringing men crying over wives who left them. Not even because they cheated. The wives left because they masturbated. AA does work to make you stop drinking. But these other programs are like the Honored Matres to AA’s Bene Gesserit. By the time you get there the author’s lost the thread.

13 Responses to “Diary: The Supreme Gentleman”

  1. vallensdorothy February 12, 2017 at 12:18 pm #

    Congrats on three years. But fuck all those other 12-steps programs. None of them are going to help with the fact that life is mostly shit. But it’s still better to not be drunk.

  2. highinformationvoter February 12, 2017 at 12:34 pm #

    Sick Dune reference. I love you Taco.

  3. ingrate bum who bought ur faggotass book February 12, 2017 at 1:48 pm #

    allow me to stroke your fragile ego with some pozitive feedback:

    your writing is great. you are the best living writer. it is a complete travesty that you do not earn a millionaire+ annual income from your writing, which i must emphasize is the best in the entire known universe. it’s because we live in a clown world where only the shittiest people are successful, mainly through jewish nepotism and feminist control.

    angela that filthy nasty mexican cunt is the dumbest whore for having left you. she is a harlot and i know she’s reading this sentence right now down to the final period. she will OD chasing the next high, copying what she saw in the movies.

  4. pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn February 12, 2017 at 2:04 pm #

    I tried to dm you on twitter, spent like ten minutes typing out a heartfelt message I didn’t want to dump in the comment section here. It got deleted when I tried to send it cause you don’t follow me. Told you that on there, but you ignored me, fucking ingrate. Not emailing it.

  5. Anonymous February 12, 2017 at 2:09 pm #

    I thought you’d be turned on by those housewives. The weaker they are, the easier they fall…into your bed, right?

  6. James, recovered alcoholic February 12, 2017 at 11:19 pm #

    Please never stop writing.
    My last drink was three years ago today
    No shit.
    Actually the 13th, the day before Valentine’s Day
    Not sure if it’s past midnight in Sunny California
    I absolutely love your writing, man,and you too DelTac!
    My homegroup is There Is a Solution in Lafayette La.
    Cajun Country. Some drinkin ass motherfuckers down here.
    My higher power is Providence, keyword: Provide.
    You and your filthy ass writing is a part of that. I mean that.
    I’d be dead as a goddamn doornail if it weren’t for this blog, along with all the other distinctions of the higher power.
    I’m no writer, so I probably read like a Hanging Douchebag.
    I would pay cash fuckin money for a plane ticket and hotel to have you come speak at my group, as I am Speaker Chair.
    You know, experience strength hope and hot southern pussy
    I’ll even hook you up with one of mine!
    Thanks again My Dude.
    🙂

  7. Bonnes Tacos February 13, 2017 at 1:33 am #

    This one was good. I smirked here, sorry:

    “Bud and I did frolic in meadows together. I really should kill my neighbor’s dog. But I don’t want to look over in the next meadow and see that fat fuck playing with him.”

    Write shitty novels first if you have to, just for practice. 1,000,000 words of supernatural romance. Most of the successful pros appear to be old-school journalistic about the job, every day sit down and hammer out your 1000+ words and fuck inspiration. Then revise etc, send it off and start on the next one.

    Your secret power though should be to know what sort of book gets optioned. Or maybe you should move to New York and just tinder up awkward editors at Knopf until you learn the market. Get a tweed jacket and a room of your own at some rural New England campus. The high road.

  8. Small February 15, 2017 at 12:05 am #

    Tacos, I’m only a simple sperg girl on the internet. My life choices are worse than yours and I’m much less successful, making my advice… pretty much worthless. But still: you’ll be more successful if you talk about other people more. Everyone who succeeds, I’m pretty sure does it by writing about their friends or their family or even their job. Or they turn the news into sci-fi stories, or *something*. Heinlein is actually less self-obsessed, although also a lesser writer. You should be illustrating yourself more through your interactions with sharply-observed outside characters. Less of this navel-gazing. I really hoped that you had other projects in the works, for *years*, and then it was this Amazon project. You’re a great writer and I think you should be pushed to do more than bitch about not being the next Tucker Max. Is that seriously what you want for yourself? Tucker Max, Jr.?

    You can’t really believe you’re the first damaged alcoholic whoremongering white man to pick up the fucking pen. It sucks to see you disappear into the mirror.

    • Anonymous February 16, 2017 at 1:08 pm #

      This bitch is 100% correct. Tacos is way too self-obsessed. After a while, it’s just whining.

  9. Anonymous February 16, 2017 at 1:09 pm #

    Wtf is a “put bull,” and who the fuck is Holly?

  10. Not a faggot like you February 18, 2017 at 3:56 am #

    Nice Eliot Rodger reference, you fucking faggot.

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