Detergent Diary

15 Dec
aufeminin

aufeminin.com

I’m posting old unpublished material to draw page views for my new book Finally, Some Good News.

Sunday

Well what the fuck. Have to go into work today. That’s bad. The good news is I don’t have a punctured tire. PSI is about 27-28 on all 4 of them. So my tire pressure light only came on as all four tires had experienced natural leakage. Probably having to do with the rain. Perhaps the cold. So: just put 3 more PSI in each tire. Which I’ll do but fuck doing it now. Also repair the fish tank so I can fill it past the point where the water sounds like a full gamelon orchestra performing a concert on the back of my neck. Also rewash the dishes that I paid 61 dollars to have a maid wash. Which naturally whatshertits left about a gallon of detergent on each one. Despite my rinsing the coffee cup three times and letting it stand full of hot water for several seconds– in spite of this I got a nice throatful of caustic cancer causing detergent that will make my penis fall off.

Monday

Good morning. The fucking cleaning lady used some detergent that I can still taste in my coffee cup. This after rinsing it, letting water stand in it, rewashing it with my preferred Safeway brand lemon dish soap, rinsing it again, putting five large cups of hot coffee and milk through it, etc. etc. It makes me permanently retarded. Disrupts my endocrine system, lowers my testosterone, makes me slow and distracted at work and steals my ability to write and makes my nose grow and my dick shrink and sucks money out of my bank account and tanks my cryptocurrencies.

Anyway I don’t want to fucking go to work and look at screens and broil my slimy and swollen right eyeball further. I don’t want to damage my right eye and I don’t want to close the right eye and lean on my left eye and fuck that one up too. The same way when I was telemarketing I always had the loud howler tone spouting phone in one ear. Those jobs really broke me. I can’t lie to sell shit which is what all business is.

Tuesday

The only thing that will save me is something even worse. Only reason I could not go to work on Monday is another death, another sickness, a rupture in my asshole and a colostomy bag, eye cancer, house burns down with me in it. America must be annihilated. Not one stone left heaped upon another. Somebody fuck me for Christ’s sake.

At the same time– let’s have a gratitude list. Many of my dreams came true. My novel is good. If you take all the chapters of Finally, Some Good News and put them in a Word document and read it it’s a book. You think: god damn, this book is fucking good. I can’t wait to read more. So suck my dick.

Wednesday

Is it the detergent– I drank the fucking detergent again. I should just throw out that mug. Is it the detergent that’s making me retarded, or is it thinking that the detergent is making me retarded that’s making me retarded. Does it matter. Either way I have that combination of 1) being retarded 2) anxiety about now being retarded forever. There was supposed to be a 3) but I’m too retarded to remember it. And I have to go in to work and solve an unsolvable problem. And I fail there will be a catastrophe, and if I succeed there will be more work, and I will not have the time or energy to even think about solving this problem because it’s 100% guaranteed that there will be a ton of other business to chase which will have a tighter deadline than the deadline of the problem I need to solve which is how to avoid losing business while chasing more business and what the fuck happens if we catch it.

Thursday

Penis.

Friday

Good morning. The reality is I don’t want to do work of any kind, at all, ever. I want to fucking (REDACTED) into high school age nymphets in the Philippine jungle. Arthur C. Clarke retirement at the age of 42. I really need some pussy, pussy that I don’t pay for, and to find that, what do I do. Only transsexuals and other ugly girls message me on Tinder. No one will ever send me the first message. Me sending the first message results in conversations that go nowhere. I as a man do all the work while the woman is cunty and adversarial, as in nature. Where the lyrebird must be vulnerable with his elaborate feathers and dance. And the woman just picks. Don’t we live in a feminist society where women do stuff. No, they are absolute garbage and must be (REDACTED).

Saturday

Plus I smell. Woke up this morning and I stank like death, from the stupid dish soap that won’t rinse out that the shitty maid used that soaked into the nonstick coating of my slow cooker. I made chili for the week and about the tenth bite I noticed that perfume taste. And I couldn’t throw it out. Partly because I’m so cheap but mostly because I was afraid to hurt the chili’s feelings. Now my hormones permanently fucked. All women will smell me and know I’m unfit to mate. Retarded and unfuckable forever. I fooled them for a minute though.

3 Responses to “Detergent Diary”

  1. eyeroll emoji December 17, 2018 at 10:32 am #

    me: *writes to you*

    you: “women never write to me, this is horrible”

    me: *writes again, months later*

    you: “plz… someone, anyone, send pussy, I’m dying”

    me: …

    • delicioustacos December 19, 2018 at 8:34 pm #

      Maybe you’re going to my spam folder. Are you Asian?

      • Anonymous December 22, 2018 at 3:46 pm #

        Bloggers who like Asian girls usually have small dicks.

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