I need to post something while the stupid fucking kid stomps around upstairs. And I’m horny. And I drank too much coffee, or too little– I gotta order a new ball hair trimmer. Another binder for my DVDs. Never watch but can’t throw them away. Repair the fish tank. To do this, drain the fish tank. I don’t even know where the leak is. Fuck, I don’t want to get rid of it. I want a fish tank. My recurring – fuck — did I yell audibly. Did I yell audibly at them stomping around. And they fucking heard me. Well they stopped stomping. They stomp and it drives me crazy. And I yell. And they stop. And I feel guilty. You can’t fucking win.
They don’t know how loud the kid is. Or they don’t care. People with kids don’t care about anyone else. Nor should they. I’m the useless tumor on society with no investment in its future.
I don’t want to mix a big batch of diatomaceous earth and fertilizer and red phosphorus from match heads and screws and ball bearings and flechettes and strap it to myself and go to the nearest church or school and detonate it. But I get why people do. Moments waiting for a text back from a girl from OKCupid. Who responded to my message. Meaning she’s at least two points beneath me on a 1-10. And I’m not exactly a nine my fucking self. A fat woman who said yes to a date and confirmed the date/ time and you say on my way and …
Just deep black silence like your own death. But still half awake troubled by weird dreams. Neglected fish tank. Weird creatures half alive buried in sand gnawing at one another with needlelike eel teeth. Later she has some unconscious sense of timing to text sorry got caught up in the office. This week is a nightmare. The exact moment you could have let go. Just let me not be invisible. Women get dehumanized. But I’m not even a living creature to them. Then some ugly girl messages me. I say nothing. So who the fuck am I to talk.
I gotta update the people who read this. I’m in the end part of the new book where I’m not posting chapters. It’s hard. All the setups gotta be paid off. I’m like George R.R. Martin. Painted into corners—like George R. R. Martin if no one gave a shit. Also have to work a more than full time job. All kinds of horseshit associated with Alcoholics Anonymous. Let me take a minute to tell you: don’t get sober. Not for one day. The shit you think it’ll do to your life– all true. I can’t get a date. Look at me for Christ’s sake. A guy I sponsored started smoking crack again and I thought: thank God. I don’t have to talk about the Big Book anymore.
The anguish of writing. No gratification of posting it. Having one guy say “brilliant” and another say “this sucks fag” (thank you both). It’s driving me nuts. But I’m gonna crank out this new book. And you’re gonna buy it. And if every one of you did, and ten of your friends did too– it wouldn’t pay the rent. But I can say I did it.
DVD cases in sticky greasy dust all over the carpet. 22 thousand dollar a year uninhabitable shithole. Light timer on the fish tank where my last fish died tick tick ticking. Grinding plastic on plastic at one million decibels reminding me I’m functionally dead and everything I loved is gone. George R. R. Martin if no one gave a shit. Was about to say at least I’m better looking. But this 2018 OKCupid taught me: there are no male 6’s. You’re a 10 or a 0 to a pustule faced IQ 85 (REDACTED) with teeth like a mole whose hobbies are eating and writing don’t message me. Women deserve to be (REDACTED). I’m a zero. A zero. I need to jack off.
delicioustacos 
I remember a Tinder date with an actuary, she was pretty beautiful actually. Never heard from her again. I understand you have to be quite smart for that profession.
Yeah I might edit the occupation
You’re good mate. You’re genuinely, objectively good. Kia kaha.
Every good date I go on ends with a ghost and then pictures on their Instagram of some older man with them and all I can do is silently fume. He’s probably rich. And it’s annoying, because I’m not poor… But I’m not trust fund rich, or established businessman who struggled to date all through his tenties and now at 38 has enough money to finally steal a 24 year old… Hair stylist… with a nice rack out from my fingers. What the fuck. Zero reporting in.
“Don’t torment and punish yourself with things you don’t really want anyway. Things you want for the wrong reasons.”
It’s hard to know what to say. You don’t want advice or suggestions for the actual situation. “That’s not the point, man! It’s art, man!” You mock our feedback on your writing. You never reply when we share related experiences. I know you want groupies to fly over and bang you without showering but most of us are blokes.
And you pretend not to read the comments but then the next post will be all about what a bunch of retarded cunts we are.
And you wonder why that guy always just says “fag”. At least he gets a reaction.
But anyway, why do all that AA stuff if you hate it? Do you really need the distraction to stop drinking? Maybe you could learn a language instead. An Asian language.
I’ve read you for years and have never commented on any of your posts, but I check in every few days just to see.
I just came to say that your writing speaks to me and that I appreciate the trouble you go through to put it out here.
Anyway, modern dating is shit and I believe swipe apps did more than their fair share to kill it. It’s kind of like the scenario you described in one post: with the hot girls and the bar scene. A trendy new bar is only so good for a pick-up spot for so long. Once normal people show up, it scares off the good girls, so they go elsewhere. But the rumour persists and the place becomes a sausage fest and only draws in the fatties, sluts, and wanna be instagram thots thereafter. It happened to Tinder, and it is happening to Bumble right now. It happened to OkCupid, like, 6 years ago.
It all follows the same cycle. First the professional and/or intelligent women show up, and the getting is good. This lasts for maybe a year or two, tops. This is the time you get dates with doctors, lawyers, accountants, or generally just pleasant girls. Then, enter stage two: the the less attractive girls with attitudes start to grow in number as they have heard from their friends that an app is good for the pickings. By stage three, it’s all ugly girls or pretty sluts with black chokers, high waisted short-shorts, septum piercings, tattoos all over, and daddy issues. Even the ugly ones get matches out the asshole, but you know this.
Anyway, I used to show up on these apps and get dozens of matches in a sitting. Now? Fuck all, and most of them ghost you in the first few sentences for something they precieve as better. My appearance hasn’t changed either, it’s just how these things flow. The good girls? Mostly gone.
Maybe your book proceeds can fund your future escort habit, or maybe you can be a sugar daddy… Or maybe you can leave LA.
Best of luck.
Seconded. Everything’s fucked now. At least we had our day.
And I’ve been reading you for years as well. Good luck. We’re all going to need it.
Ah yea we still get all the sluts. Standards just went up and the losers are flushed out. Awe shucks bro. Gene pool lottery, can’t all be winners.
If only “failed writer in LA” wasn’t the most cliche thing of all time.
Hilarious part about it is how they’re still in every Starbucks telling you about Bukowski and their own dreary existence. Without a hint of self awareness or irony.
LA is a town for winners, and their waiters and maids.
You keep on winning, bro.
Bukowski lived a dreary life for many years, an alkie who stayed in ghetto bedsits, worked only lowlife blue collar jobs, drank only cheap booze and wine, got only ugly alkie pussy, along with having regular alley bum fights, wrote, wrote, wrote. Pretty good all in all. I prefer his low rent poetry.
(The woman he missed most was ugly alkie pussy who drank herself to death.)
I think we can say with some confidence that everything worth publishing by Bukowski, by a wide margin, has by now been published.
What I’m most curious about though, our genial host excepted, is the large corpus of Celine’s writings that has been held back from publication. (“But why did they do that, grandpa?” “Hrrrm, what’s on TV? Go fetch my slippers.”)
I picked up a used copy of Burning I water, Drowning In Flame… the only Bukowski I’ve read so far. Good stuff – pretty odd to read it after reading DT first, though.
Do you write poetry, Tacos?
Have you tried jerking off
Weird dreams, eh? Your psyche’s calling you to action. Pay attention. Oh and, your writing is fucking outstanding. You could make a living off it if you’d let yourself.
Reading this is the highlight of my day. But it’s only noon. Either way, thank you for taking the time to make me laugh at the incredible lightness of being. Muah!
I call you a faggot because you write about nothing but a moral wasteland –that’s all you see because instead of genuine soul searching and individualism you outsourced your spiritual life to AA and its juvenile attempts at team psychoanalysis
I also call you a faggot because you sucked dick that one time. Gay
I’m calling you a faggot because you said “genuine soul searching and individualism”
Why don’t you faggots quit flirting and get a room, already?
Haha. Go cry more over your dead cat, bitch.
I know your dating prospects aren’t actually that bad. You’re like some kind of fucked-up trapdoor spider. Or some kind of carnivorous bird, spastically flapping a wing on the beach until another tender-hearted young tourist comes close enough for a nibble.
It’s good to see you posting – I always worry you’ll die ambiguously (“was it kink, suicide or a revenge murder?”) and we won’t find out. Great stuff as always. If I could snap my fingers and make only one of us famous tomorrow, it would be you.
Take it from a literal 10/10- women are ALL fucking (REDACTED)
Drank 4 bottles of wine a night for 20 years (box actually). Quit in one day because it was boring. AA is for losers who need people. Fuck people.