delicioustacos

I’m not good enough, my book isn’t good enough, it’s not as good as Mike Ma’s book, I’m not tall enough– 6 foot 3 or above– I’m too fat, the bottom of my six pack has fat on it, I’m not handsome enough, not rich enough, my future earning potential is not high enough to start a family– $300K plus per year– my nose hairs are too long bristly and white, my dick is not big enough, my nuts not small compact tight and symmetrical enough, the nuts themselves are fucked up and then too my scrotum is too long. My butthole not hairless enough. My books don’t sell well enough. When they do it’s not to enough women. I don’t have enough guns crossbows and C4 explosives to protect my putative children when shit hits the fan. I’m not liberal enough. I’m too associated with future mass murdering incel Nazis. I’m just not cool. I’m not famous enough. I could do something about it but you know, who gives a fuck.

I saw a rock that looked like a piece of liver. Went to pick it up. It pulsated. Some kind of sea slug. Weird, naked and vulnerable. Squirmy limbs like tree fungus uncurling from it. A foot away the waves. I should throw it back, I thought. But what if it wanted to beach itself. Maybe it has its reasons.

I let it go. The tide was rising. Maybe it died in agony wishing I’d thrown it back. Maybe it lived, wishing I’d killed it.

Image: https://www.jw.org/en/publications/magazines/wp20141101/fear-satan-the-devil/

Second time I woke up and the deadbolt was locked, with no memory of it, and no sense memory of turning it. The distinctive brushed bronze. Was the back deadbolt locked. This would have been definitive proof that I locked it myself, right?

Unless someone with the keys did it. Continue reading →

it doesn’t matter if your book sells today or ever– you fucking did your best. It’s all you can do. If it sucks, if it fails– you got up there. You got in the ring. If a huge guy threw right cross left hook combinations into you repeatedly doing severe permanent cosmetic and brain damage and had a much better physique because he’s black and everyone, millions and millions of people laughed at your backfat on TV… if you fell over backwards, hit your head hard, again, the ref pulled off your pants and put peanut butter on your dick and a dog started licking it and this image went viral… and it was cold so your dick looked small too– it doesn’t matter. You took your shot. You’re a– well not quite a champion. A champion would be the guy who won. Whose book outsold Sweet Alien Savage: Zerconian Sex Warriors Book 4 in its Amazon category… but you’re a guy... a guy who stood in a ring, and took his shot, and failed, publicly, and you suck and everyone hates you, and you’re ugly. Thank God I get laid.

Why was my deadbolt locked this morning. Was someone in the house sprinkling poison on my lips. Designed to make me crazy. Shrink my penis. Lower my IQ. Delete my Tinder matches. Erase my Microsoft Word documents– good, all garbage. Good job, Satan. Contaminate my foods with BPAs. I don’t even know what BPAs are. Get on Facebook and send my embarrassing resumé to all my high school friends who thought I was dead. Telling them I’m alive, just a loser.

So the blinds fully protect me from seeing what’s going on outside my apartment. But provide a clear, perhaps even an enhanced view of everything going on inside to anyone standing outside. Enhanced because that one visible strip is fully lit. Draws the eye even from a distance of a few feet, exactly where she was standing. The strip with my computer showing pornography and the back of my head and my arm, clearly jerking off. Her out in the blackness and me inside jerking it; the monitor looks like the bright screen of a drive in as you pass by on the dark freeway. Every inch of the image unmistakable. If you stopped on the side of the road you could easily watch the entire movie, of me jerking off to disgusting porn.