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12 May

I need to get a new job.  And the sole criterion I am going to employ, rather than salary, potential for growth, intellectual fulfillment or any of that bullshit is whether girls work there.

Because that’s the only thing that matters. If you are where the pussy is, life is great.  If you are not where the pussy is, life is horrible. And friends, I am emphatically NOT where the fucking pussy is. For how little I am exposed to women, it is a god damn miracle that I ever get laid at all.  I must be a world record holder for opportunity/ pussy ratio.  Like a one-legged marathon runner.  Lots of guys get laid a lot more than me, but I am pulling a pretty god damn respectable time for hopping along with a fucking stump.

The problem is, the way our society is built– what you need to do to be “successful,”  to be “prosperous–”  the fruit is hanging so high that getting to the respectable middle consumes your whole life.  And it starts about forty five minutes after you come out of the womb. You need to work your ass off in high school and get into a good college. People talk about grade point average and SAT’s, you know– as though I worked hard, did well in school and killed that standardized test, now i’m going to get into a good college.  Bullshit.  All that stuff, those years of labor, homework and toil at the one time in your life when you have social and sexual access to fourteeen year old girls– all that just gets you to zero.  All that gets you to the point where you won’t be instantly eliminated from the first round of applicant pool. Continue reading →

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Diary: Noise Pollution

11 May

Good morning.

Out in the park.  Naturally there is some kind of gas powered machine being used to loudly mow down brush. Every fucking day with this shit.  God fucking forbid they do it between the hours of nine and five on a weekday, when every productive member of society is somewhere else.  No, they MUST do it at 8AM, in my approximately 40 minutes of time to myself.

And if it’s not the city clearing brush that will force coyotes, rattlesnakes and scorpions into people’s yards to mangle their pets, it’s a guy working out of his home wood shop and running a whining, keening lathe that he hasn’t adequately lubed for his woodworking project, which, fine, good– it’s cool that he’s into woodworking.  That sounds like a fun rewarding hobby where you actually get tangible fruits for your labors, and must be a balm for the soul in this era of work for nothing.  Work to avoid getting yelled at.

But still. This guy is retired.  Between nine and five on a weekday he is jerking off and reading woodworking magazines, and then Saturday 8AM rolls around and it’s time to fire up rickety screechy lathes, routers, sanders and jigsaws.  It’s time to make a thousand foot radius around his garage sound like a pack of dinosaurs were undergoing sexual torture. Continue reading →

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The End of the World

4 May

I keep thinking about nuclear disaster.  Or some other apocalyptic thing.  Tsunami, mega-earthquake, plague– something.  As long as you made it through, as long as you were not burned by radiation or given giant infectious pustules– as long as you made it through, and weren’t somehow trapped caring for the millions of others who did have radiation burns and giant pustules– the end of the world world be fucking great.

And this is why there are so many movies about it, books about it– it’s not out of fear.  It’s out of wish fulfillment.  Just like Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker, Frodo Baggins and etc . etc. etc.–aren’t orphans in their stories because of fear of losing your parents, but because kids wish their parents were dead.  That the bumbling, irritating schlumps constantly pestering you with questions that are like cigarette burns on the back of your neck– they wish these people had never existed for them, and that their real mommy were a princess who owned a huge magical castle that you could live in, and would have plenty of space to keep the two of you apart.

But anyway, if the world ended, it would be great.  Or at least, if civilization ended.  Loot the grocery store for a bunch of food and go up to the mountains and camp.  Shoot a deer once in a while.  Nice quiet nights by the fire.  Find a young woman of breeding age who needs you for protection and couldn’t leave you or she would die.  Take over some abandoned cabin and raise a modest amount of livestock and just rawdog her for the rest of your life. Continue reading →

Diary 2005: The Gym

1 May

I hate the gym. That fucking stairmaster, the endless agony– I’ll have moments when I’m on there, swerving all herky-jerky like a marionette– I space out, follow a thought or daydream along a whole complex sequence for what seems like several minutes, and then I look down and not one second has passed. I can grasp the infinitude of hell this way. The weights– rusty medieval torture devices, the bench press crushing the breath out of my chest, grinding me down into the sweaty staphylococcal pleather… and I never gain one ounce of strength. I’ve been benching 205 on a good day for over a year. Continue reading →

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The Socialist Nanny State Sounds Pretty Fucking Awesome

27 Apr

My friend had an abortion in Holland.  She’s hot, so my initial reaction after she told me was to go home and masturbate to the thought of popping off an unprotected nut in her.  But after that, I started thinking about socialism.

Because the whole story started out with this horror– there was some painful complication; she’d had to be hospitalized for weeks after, and it would have been a nightmare for this broke, wayward girl who is about as organized in life as any good looking unemployed actress in her twenties– it would have been a nightmare, except everything was taken care of and free.  There was no bill at the end of this abortion and then internal bleeding and weeks of inpatient care and then follow up home visits and friendly helpful people telling her what the next step would be at every part of the process. It was all free, and the people helping her out, who were employed by the government, were actually knowledgeable, caring and nice.  And from scraping Johann van der Guyinaband’s baby out of her to her final post-treatment evaluation was all part of one system, so, the nurse who told her there was some kind of ovarian hemorrhaging was able to say “don’t worry, we’re gonna take you to the state run hospital right next door and check you in and do some tests, and from there after you get released we’ll come to wherever you live and keep checking up on you for free.  So I know this sucks,” they would say compassionately, “but don’t worry, ’cause we’re gonna take care of you.”

In America, it would have been: you looking down between your feet in stirrups and seeing the abortionist cock an eyebrow suspiciously, maybe mutter, but ultimately say nothing.  And then afterward a squat, surly nurse in a briefing  room would force some forms on you saying you weren’t gonna sue before telling you you had some kind of complication and might want to go have a doctor look at it.  Wait, what?  What is it? Ma’am.  Ma’am– please, calm down ma’am.  I’m not allowed to discuss this with you, we recommend that you go to a qualified physician… and if you have insurance, you get home with your insides stinging and bleeding from having the guy in a band’s baby scraped out of you and the first thing you’d have to do is call the phone number on the back of your insurance card and ring… ring…

Para Español marque el numero “dos” … Welcome to Blue Shield of California. If you are a health care provider, please press “one” now… (wait)… if you are a member, please say “I’m a member.”   “I’m a member”  I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. If you are a member, please say–”  “I’M A MMMEMMMBBEERRRR!!!!!” All right. Please say or enter your ten digit policy number... (beep beep boop beep)… Continue reading →

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Protected: Just Stay in the God Damn Shame Hut

27 Apr

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Diary 2/19/11: Turning 35

25 Apr

Anyway.

Yeah, it’s my birthday.  I am thirty five years old.  This feels like a momentous age for some reason.  I am thinking like a woman,  because, for an unmarried woman, this age is some kind of shitstorm where your last viable egg is now gone and you just have a 9/10th’s empty gumball machine with only a couple Trig Palins left rattling around.  But still, I am single. I am single with no plausible hope of not being single.  I do not know even one person, out of the dozens and dozens of reasonably attractive women whom I know- I do not know even one person I would consider dating who would consider dating me.

And now I’m thirty five.  So you figure, if I meet someone tomorrow, we hit it off, we get married after a year, we spend two years traveling and hanging out and somehow saving money, and then we have kids, that puts me at thirty fucking eight when my first child is born.  And if I want to have more kids, I’ll be into my forties.  My ball sack will be full of Trig Palins.  And this is assuming that I meet someone tomorrow, even though I have been trying, trying hard, to meet someone for ten fucking years.  I have been doing everything.   But ultimately I would have to completely reengineer my life to meet a woman and make it stick.  I would have to put myself in a position where women are around me naturally. Because girls don’t want you; they don’t come looking for you; they don’t even like it if you come looking for them. You have to be forced to be in a place and your presence there has to be in no way motivated by there being girls there and they have to slowly come to like you over time.
Continue reading →

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The Value of Work

21 Apr

When I was fourteen my mom made me get a job.  She was really hell bent on this, as soon as you can start working legally, you start working.  I don’t mean to make her sound mean—this was perfectly normal.  I imagine someone had made her start working the literal second it was legal as well.  On the east coast, at least 20 years ago, there wasn’t an underclass of immigrants doing all the gigs that teenagers could do.  You’re fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, you get a job. I wish it were like that out here; you’d see more fourteen year old girls working retail.

Anyway, she made me get a job.  And again, not to be mean, and not to make me give her the money or pay rent to live in my own childhood home or any shit like that– I got to keep the money.  But just to teach me some lesson about the value of work. Or some other, more jaded lesson.  Something about how all work sucks and is useless and horrible and the value that you actually get out of your labor isn’t shit compared to what some rich property owning guy makes, some guy who ninety nine times out of one hundred inherited some position in society where it would be easy to have these things.  To own a McDonald’s franchise or whatever. Continue reading →

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Protected: Old News: Match.com Screening Sex Offenders

20 Apr

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Sexist Coffee Ad

19 Apr

I love this video.

I never think about feminism in terms of what shit actually used to be like.  I think about it in terms of what shit is like now, where feminism is people commenting on blog posts, battling an endless war over who has the bigger right to complain.  People demanding the right to walk down the street without feeling fear.  Not demanding that some specific thing change, or that someone do anything practical about anything, just– I demand somehow that I no longer experience the subjective emotion of fear.  I demand that I stop feeling pressured to look like a skinny girl in an ad.  I demand that men do something about this.  Men stop rape.  Etc.  Seventy seven cents on the dollar.  And then men somehow stupidly getting engaged in this meaningless battle, saying what about our complaints.  Our complaints are valid, how come you guys never think about us, etc., which– shut the fuck up, dude.  The only way to win here is not to play.  I love complaining as much as the next guy but once you get into complaining about other people complaining, and they fire back with how dare you complain, you can’t even begin to grasp the scope of my complaints, thousands of years of complaints, waah waah what about the menz, etc., which, yes, people who spend their entire intellectual lives complaining have a knee jerk reaction to infantilize and mock other people’s complaints.  Why go down this rabbit hole. Continue reading →

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