Dasha’s Movie

I’m in the lobby of the doctor’s office waiting for my cancer results. My FWB Isolde who looks like a 15 year old Filipina prostitute is going to the West Coast premier of Dasha’s movie. At the Los Feliz 3 with one of the other dudes she’s fucking. I forget if it’s the one I’m trying to not be threatened by. But it has to be. I took her to the Marine Mammal Care Center. They rehabilitate sick pinnipeds. We saw a female elephant seal. She’s hot– Isolde, not the seal– and she smells good, and when I look at her I can sense myself start to catch feelings. I let it pass.

I’m not jealous of seeing Dasha’s movie. But I’m jealous of someone who’d want to. Who’s still part of the world. On our first date she wore Red Scare panties. She has a nice pussy. The Los Feliz 3 is on the block where I used to live before I got too poor and old. Last time I was there was for Alex Lee Moyer’s TFW No GF. The famous documentary about incels. A special screening for cool people. I felt important being friends with Alex. Talking to her on the sidewalk. She was glad to have someone there who’s sympathetic to incels, she said. I was the only one. Every other person was a wealthy film hipster who hates or fears everyone the movie talks about.

The movie features a man named Kantbot. He was a friend once but started hating me. He showed my work to the hosts of Red Scare. I almost became relevant to women. Later he sent me manic screeds. Accused me of fomenting a Nazi bodybuilder harassment campaign against him. But I still liked Kantbot when the movie was out. Whereas the murmurs and susurrations in the theater made clear that to every other white person in LA these nerds were school massacring menaces, etc.

He’s gonna be her boyfriend. He’s taking her to Dasha’s movie. I’m at the doctor waiting to get told my prostate lump is cancer. Other decrepit people wheeze around me. Thick Latina receptionist does not want to fuck me. The doctor stumps out to get some fax about someone’s endometriosis and I look up and nod and he quickly looks away. It’s cancer. I get a text from my ex. It says I’m going to Dasha’s movie tonight, would you like to go.

Now I want to. This ex is someone where I’d really like to lick her clam one more time. She has a nice one. I’d like to impregnate her, honestly. And I was gonna say crush her dreams of starting a zine but she’d have a better chance of making it with me in her life. Versus her emotionally abusive bipolar 25 year old boyfriend or whateverthefuck she has going on. I want to look at the ticket line. See the cool pretty people who are into Red Scare. She knows they’ve heard of me.

I like these girls but they need young abusive boyfriends. I’m too tired to beat women up or break their possessions. In the end I stayed home. Threw head kicks and teeps into the heavy bag. Jumped rope, did pushups and sandbag hip flexor knee raises then went to bed. I could do a 10 round Muay Thai fight at night but can’t go to a movie. I get in the doctors office and he takes forever to come but my folder’s sitting there. My packet from LabCorp. It says the reference range for Prostate Specific Antigen is .25 to .4. Mine is .5. I have cancer. The doctor comes in and reads through the pages and pages of other useless tests. Renal function is normal. Cholesterol is normal. The cancer test is on like page 18 and he’s doing his four score and seven years ago and I’m gonna get Roto Rootered by jagged steel implements threaded up the bloody meat of my dick. Die young, a hard call with my mother. I just let him go. Liver function is normal. Vitamin D is normal.

He gets to the next to last page then flips it. And I see there’s no decimal point. The reference range is .25 to four, not point four. I don’t have cancer. Can you believe it.