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Auto Wreck

24 Nov

Title stolen from this Karl Shapiro poem.


Sitting waiting to make a left into the gym driveway. Night workout before Alcoholics Anonymous. A drunk swerved across the yellow line. Slammed into me. Old Korean guy. Mr. Kim, obviously. Why have names. Continue reading

Drop the Rock

22 Sep


Can’t meet a girl until I quit my job. Can’t quit my job until I have a hundred grand. Can’t get a hundred grand because I spend it on girls. I crashed my car. I crashed into the back of a Salvadoran couple who were clearly uninjured but the guy started holding his back with the subtlety of the evil priest in the telenovelas they play at the laundromat. Motherfucker. Now I’m getting called into work on a Sunday. Exactly like fucking Office Space. How did this happen. It’s always been like this. I listened to my AA sponsor. I was grateful to be of service and now I’m alone working my ass off with nothing for nothing and I’m horribly aware that my problems don’t exist and they’re all in my own head. I do have a hundred grand. Some of it’s a retirement account. I’d pay taxes if I withdrew it. So suddenly it doesn’t count. This time two years ago it was fifty grand to quit and it’ll just go up and up to whatever amount is close but not quite there. It was six months of cash then a year now two then two plus what if I get someone pregnant, like anyone’s keeping my fucking baby. Like I’d want them to at my Los Angeles public schools level of income. I need an abundance mentality. I could crash into a hundred Salvadorans and still be in the black. I could Farmers Market it through the Salvadoran Heritage Festival. A hundred kids with a hundred whores– what the fuck are they gonna do to me. Continue reading

National Lampoon’s Sex Addict Vacation

14 Sep

Pussy Bar Titties

This post is fictional. Continue reading

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16 Apr

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Protected: Weekend Journal: Your Pussy Your Problem

11 Dec

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Weekend Journal: Pussy is the Only Thing

10 Jul

girl cropped pussy

As I was washing shit off my dick with the citrus almond hand soap I tried to feel bad. I couldn’t. I tried to be afraid of HIV; scrutinized my shiny white shaft under the surgical bathroom light for blood. Raw anal sex with runaway meth hookers: frowned upon by the CDC. But I was intact. What’s more, the transmission rate for the– what’s the opposite of the “receptive partner”– the guy who puts his dick in never gets it. I tried to think about hanging myself like I have at least ten times a day for a month. Couldn’t. I tried to picture my dead dad, my dead friend, my dead cat looking down on me from heaven. Shaking their heads at the boy they loved doing self destructive shit. Their ghosts were gone. I was just there in the downstairs shower getting hard again, thinking about eight minutes ago. Continue reading

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7 Oct

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