image from joshobrouwers.com
Missed call.12:32 AM from Gracie Tinder August 2016.
Who is that. Did I say bad shit about her? Could she accuse me of rape? AIDS? Pregnant? August 2016– 8 months ago. That’s not an abortion call. That’s an I’m having it call. Good. Finally this all means something. Continue reading
Don’t quit smoking. Don’t go to work. Don’t save money. Don’t pay taxes, bills. Don’t be kind to women. Get a new name in a new country where you can beat your 13 year old wife and live on 2 dollars a day. Continue reading
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. Continue reading
Out in the park on a stump. Looking at snow capped Mount Baldy. A hummingbird hovers by a tall tree top. A nice day. I have therapy in 30 minutes. It will be the last time. I spent money on this, to get my AA sponsor off my back. Make him stop browbeating me about finding peace with women. It was this or go to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. The therapist got me through grief about my father. Through panic about my own death. Life slipping away. When it came to women he said: sign up for a community college class. Continue reading
My new collection The Pussy is out. Crack open The Pussy, tear up The Pussy, The Pussy is available used, etc.
How about some positivity. Therapy’s working. Two sessions, we got to blaming my parents. I have homework, to think about how my parents fucked me up. This morning I conceived of them as ordinary people. It made me sick. I’m like them. Lower middle class tax payer. Throwaway sentence in the history books, in aggregate with other schlumps. The smallfolk dwelled in smelly apartments, paid bills, jerked off feverishly waiting for their Family Pak of chicken to cook. Still, they found meaning in love and children. Except one guy. Continue reading
Good morning. I’m at Woodcat. Again, this coffee shop is poorly designed. Everyone can see over my shoulder. If you can read this: suck my dick. I love raping children. Hitler was amazing. Nigger nigger faggot Jew, etc. Continue reading
I have that feeling of wanting to walk to Skid Row and get black tar, of wanting to fuck a hooker raw, but you can’t do either anymore. All the bums deal speed. It’s too easy to make. Trying to get another drug is like trying to buy American. The whores cost at least a hundred and they make you wear a condom. What’s the fucking point. I have that a feeling of wanting to jump ahead in time Billy Pilgrim style to the part of the Tinder date where she’s on my bed on top of the blankets. Black panties pulled to the side. They don’t match her bra; she didn’t plan on this; she didn’t shower. Perfect. That feeling of not wanting my entire fucking day to be typing in a coffee shop with some herbal tea because coffee is too strong a drug now. Having it after noon makes me cranky. I could just beat off but there isn’t dirty enough shit on the internet now. Mule porn means nothing to me. Fat girls being used crying, Punch and Judy Russian rape videos– all diminishing returns and that’s why I can’t go get a pint of whiskey or a little balloon of black tar from an old black lady’s mouth– I’m cursed to know it does nothing. It’ll just require more and more. Girls are like that too and money is like that too and the way out is to be of service to others but others can go fuck themselves. What I dread doing is exactly what I’ll do: herbal tea in a coffee shop, overhear some yuppies’ discussion about Coachella, post repetitive shit on my web site. I could go on this Tinder date but I don’t want to fucking perform. I don’t want to prove myself worthy of you. I want you to show up and fuck me. That’s why I typed everything I would say already and you can read it for free on the internet. I want to fuck somebody or punch somebody or take that motherfucking drink, but I won’t, I’m a pussy; I’ll post repetitive shit and text my mother and cook a nice healthy meal, leftovers for the week, go to bed early. Go to work, not get fired, save money for what. For what. For fucking what. Oh shit– new Game of Thrones tonight. Never mind, today will rule.