It can’t be God’s will for me to just to go work every morning.
And if it is fuck God’s will. This is taking too long. Why did you make me so ugly. Inside and out. Why did you make me so faithless. Your fault. Your fault, and you want me to believe in you. Give me some pussy. I genuinely believe you have nothing good in store for me. Now I genuinely believe you can read me typing. And you had something good in store for me. Until I typed “I genuinely believe you have nothing good in store for me.” Now you’ve taken it away.
**
It was gonna end one of two ways. Her not fucking me. Or I’d fuck her then know she’s an idiot. But she’s an idiot who won’t fuck me.
**
Is my right nut twisted. Will she see me again. Can I write while nothing happens. While I do nothing. Feel nothing except–I was gonna say mild irritation but it’s serious irritation. Have to piss but I don’t want to think about my twisted right nut. I just want my nuts to go away. I should get my scrotum shortened. So they don’t have room to twist around and move. But then what if I had little baby nuts. Would I look better without a broken nose. Selfie lens makes my teeth asymmetrical, highlights every jagged mutant chromosome damage old man wicked witch face angle. The whole shape of my head freakish like a non-Euclidean trapezoid and then women compound this by being disinterested in me.
**
This needs a redemption arc. But I’m sure she’s fucking her tattoo artist. Every bad thing you think about a woman turns out to be true.
But this needs a positive ending.
She did text me back. She texts and I have to double click her texts and put a thumbs up or something. Because I don’t have shit to say. This was what I wanted. When I don’t text back she breaks up with me. I told Angela this. Look, she uses your move. Angela got pissed. Don’t compare me with some swamp beast, she said.
But I find her quite good looking. I could smell her snatch through her panties and it smelled good. Like cinnamon almost. What more do you need.
I don’t need to impress anybody. Happy watching leaves spiral down off the trees out my window. Saw something like a mourning dove in the neighbor’s yard. Subtly beautiful. Perfect color of the Earth. A black ring on its neck. Out in the park I made that low deep mourning dove sound. Blowing into my folded hands. One called back to me. It was God, saying it’s gonna be OK.
delicioustacos 
Quit you lamenting and have some faith.
Doves are quite rare to see. They’re so beautiful, graceful, and cute. Unfortunately, major cities are plagued with dirty pigeons and crows. It says a lot about the Society that we live in. If I had a Ruger 10/22, I would kill every filthy street pigeons I see, leaving more room for the doves to nest and prosper. With a gun you can kill anything.
oy vey, you have too much hatred in your heart. live and let live. learn to unclench. next time you see a pigeon or a crow, give it some tasty bread, and caress its little head. city pigeons and crows can be cute too. black birds matter!
This except for the part about bread, feed them birdseed! Bread will just make them fat and shit everywhere.
Excellent. Good writing.
I’m glad to hear about your experience with the mourning dove. My Dads favorite, he does that thing with his hands too. Always gets one to respond, He knows their patterns, their plumage, and when they’re being “sing-songy”
I didn’t know it was ‘mourning’ I thought it was “morning” makes total sense, they do have a very wistful, sad song..
But now I know! I’ll have something to talk with Dad about.
So thank you for that
You’re the best writer!!
J.
Thank you
The turtleman has dark green skin, a thick, spongy surface, like wet clay. The turtleman lives by the lake. The turtleman has long, smooth legs, and even longer, skinnier arms. The turtleman reads fiction. The turtleman writes screenplays, hoping he will eventually sell one to Hollywood, but he doesn’t let his hopes get too high, because he knows a lot of depressed screenwriters who have long since lost their creative spark. The turtleman has a mere bump for a nose, slits for nostrils, and two large eyes, cartoonish, mostly white. The turtleman has a shell. The turtleman walks on two legs, like the teenage mutant ninja turtles, although he looks nothing like them, he thinks, being much taller and lankier, although, sometimes, out of fascination, late at night, looks up YouTube videos of the live-action ninja turtle films from the 1990s and watches, with fear and fascination and a grotesque, uncanny sensation, the same way a normal man might feel watching the puppet character in “Mr Meaty”.
The turtleman tokes. The turtleman wakes and bakes, and then before breakfast, and then before driving to work, and then on the drive to work, and then at his first break at work. The turtleman has a job at Dunkin Donuts. The turtleman thinks the job is shitty, but he does not care what he thinks. The turtleman considers himself mindless and insignificant, and does not have a trace of self-interest, ambition, or ego. The turtleman is viewed by his coworkers as remarkably friendly and cooperative. The turtleman is responsive to people, like some kind of liquid moving around their solid, fuller existence. The turtleman steals white powdered munchkins throughout the shift, but only when he is working alone. The turtleman is nice to customers. The turtleman is never on his phone, but he does not correct coworkers who do use their phones, who read Twitter until customers grow visibly angry and shift or move something on the table to make a noise and get the coworkers attention, or say “hey” under their breath, because the turtleman understands why they would rather be on their phones than paying attention to their work.
The turtleman knows that his coworkers could give a shit about their work at Dunkin Donuts. The turtleman still does his job well. The turtleman is Dunkin’ Donuts employee of the month. The turtleman freaks his boss out, because she said once he seems like “a fucking robot,” although she apologized later, so the turtleman was confused, although he understood where she was coming from. The turtleman understands people really well, and has a lot of compassion, and understands human flaws.
The turtleman exercises 5 times a week, doing full body workouts, with an emphasis on back and legs. The turtleman plays basketball to cool down. The turtleman, after exercising, sits down in his apartment to write. The turtleman never finds it hard to be creative. The turtleman completed a screenplay last week about a woman who was raped, and sent it to Hollywood, fingers crossed. The turtleman, this week, is working on a screenplay about a man who was raped. The turtleman tokes while he writes, and feels it helps him think more clearly. The turtleman has many other ideas about many other kinds of people and creatures getting raped. The turtleman is always excited to get started on a screenplay.
The turtleman reads. The turtleman has read Infinite Jest and Ulysses many times. The turtleman has murdered exactly 15 people over the course of the last 3 years. The turtleman is cute. The turtleman is desired by many women, but he feels no sexual attraction. The turtleman pokes himself sometimes to see his spongey skin pressed on like a memory foam mattress. The turtleman kills for fun. The turtleman feels bad after he kills. The turtleman does not rape. The turtleman has a very peculiar taste in art. The turtleman only likes art that centers around the topic of rape. The turtleman has right wing political views.
The turtleman breathes. The turtleman tries to fall asleep. The turtleman thinks “fuck I’m fuck retarded” as he tries to sleep. “I can’t articulate myself for shit” he says out loud. The turtleman says “Fuck. I want to rape. I want to get raped. I want to rape. I don’t want to rape.” The turtleman begins to cry. The turtleman screams. The turtleman smiles. The turtleman thinks “I can’t even begin to express how retarded I FUCKING AM!” The turtleman thinks “3am shift, fuck,” even though his shift is 4am.
The turtleman wants to murder again. The turtleman is bloody thirsty. The turtleman, the turtleman, the turtleman. Then the dick slides off like butter.