Every morning he thought: I can’t do this one more day. Often by the 5 offramp where a line of buses switching freeways made a bottleneck behind a blind curve. He’d be going fast around the bend and suddenly slow buses like a herd of elephant. Behind them an 80’s Jap pickup with six extra feet of steel pipe hanging out the back. Sometimes with a red rag tied on it. Sometimes not. Drivers from lawless places.
Pipe right at eye level and once a week he almost got lanced in the face like a jousting accident. He’d read about a woman killed by a flying manhole cover. She was driving and an oil truck bumping over it set it spinning like a giant Chinese star. Through the windshield into her eyes like the Simpsons’ dog with the frisbee. My luck it’d just make me uglier, he thought. Ugly blind and retarded. Then I’d step in the manhole. Continue reading
The Women’s March worked. Trump was deposed. A pink pussy hat now president. Horny killers from Damascus welcomed at LAX by your girlfriend. Schools teach in Mexican. New Chief Usury Officer of Goldman Sachs is trans. Brianna Wu on the $100. Eye in the pyramid now Lena Dunham’s asshole. All pregnancies terminated; late term abortions turn babies into pugs. Ploughshares beat into social media brand management. All workers sponsored content ambassadors for Huffington Post. Doritos knows Black Lives Matter. New twins in Beyonce’s cunt brought to you by Audi. Lyft pledges allegiance to Sharia. Hadiths mandate polyandrous slavery to blue haired genders that OKCupid knows no word for. Something to do with My Little Pony. All porn now clips of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Sheryl Sandberg merges with flesh NSA servers like an anglerfish, stares back at you from the place you dare not look. Honey Boo Boo’s Mom Lost 200 Pounds You Won’t Believe How Gorgeous She Is, she says in your inner voice. Like This. Justin Trudeau’s hot soft hand on your back like your gym teacher who drank before noon; his robust yoga pants package crawling and awake. Angela Merkel’s spindly tendons twitch as she palpates your Soylent incubation sac. We won, you guys. Pepsi stands against racism.
Jesus Christ I’m a middle aged man living alone in a one bedroom apartment with no door on the oven. I used to say a dirty toilet but you can eat off it now. I have an app where a different maid comes every month. Never anyone you’d fuck. Nowhere is there ever anyone you’d fuck. Life is work, AA meetings… the gym. Well there are girls at the gym and why don’t you talk to them. Because I’m a pitiful insect. Not rich not famous. I have saddlebags now. Double digit body fat; not fully visible obliques– I’m a hog, in other words. Occasionally a decent writer but that just means girls who don’t live near me want to fuck an imaginary version of me. Who do I have– a married woman in SF, college professor back East. A Chinese girl who lives in Switzerland now because she’s rich. Various red state types. Actually there’s a lot of girls who would fuck me from my stupid web site. So this paragraph that was meant to be a complaint actually makes things look pretty good. 1500 die hard fans contains at least 15 girls who are good looking. I’m pissed none of them has sucked me off this morning. Continue reading
An aspiring blogger writes:
Keep in mind, obviously you’re a stranger, and you’re just trying to get your own thing together, and you don’t owe me anything, but your work is an inspiration to me on a personal and professional level and I seek to emulate it in my own way! So feel free to respond or not respond, but hey, questions.
a) obviously, you have the very real problem of people you know in your real life “finding out” about your blog. How do you balance that? I read some things about you going on dates and being worried the girls wouldn’t like you once they’d read what you’d written about them, and about being concerned about the possibility of being fired by HR once they started tracking the sites you visited at work….I want to start a blog/monetize it, and have been worried about this same problem. So I don’t know how much actual advice you’ll have for me, other than “it is what it is”, but I wanted to know how you balance being authentic as possible in your writing and not burning bridges!!!!
My life is meaningless. I don’t care if it collapses. I hate working. I’d love to lose my job. I have no wife no girlfriend no children. No chance at any of those things. Continue reading
The toilet clogged this morning. When the landlady fixed my shower she also put some giant volume of something– concrete maybe– in the tank. So water isn’t being used in each flush. She’s been obsessed with this for years. First she tried a Mountain Dew 2 liter filed with seltzer, which gassed out and floated uselessly. Then a couple attempts with some kind of surgical bag full of gel. Continue reading
My new collection The Pussy is out. Pay for The Pussy, own The Pussy, put The Pussy on a pedestal, etc.
Now I’m thinking about her while she’s not thinking about me. Has not ever thought about me. She’s thinking about video shoots that guys from bands invited her to, while I’m thinking about her. Cool interesting people are inviting her to swimming pools. I’m buying unnecessary trash bags at Target to get out of the house.
********** Continue reading
I need to fail. When good shit happens it hurts. I asked for a raise. Had to wait two months to know. The whole time thinking don’t freak out. God remove my obsession with money. God let me just show up and be of service. God remove outcome dependence. Let me be patient. But that’s not how it works. Continue reading