There’s blood coming out of my dick. Nikol has a mammogram this morning. Her cancer might be back. Angela left France to move to Italy with her coke dealer. Stop calling him my coke dealer, she says. That’s not what it is. Well what then. She starts to tell me: true love. He brings her pastries and she jumps on him and wraps her legs around his back. I stop wanting to know. She moved to Italy with her coke dealer. They’ve lived together in two countries. He cums in her every time they fuck. She doesn’t stop him. There’s blood coming out of my dick. Why not his. Continue reading
Thirsty but not thirsty enough to to fuck girls ugly enough to fuck me. Supposed to write today. Won’t happen. I have ideas in the shower. They vanish as I soap my asshole. I’ll write nothing. Nothing for a year and that’s fine. Ten years, twenty years, until I’m dead, who fucking cares. If you want something you can’t have it. It’s when you remove desire that things come. Actually no– if you don’t want something you cant have it either. You just can’t have anything. God is a demon who eats suffering. Our world a rich banquet.
The fish tank is too loud. I meant to meditate, take a shit while reading the finest literature– instead I looked at the Witcher 3 subreddit. Re-read the first pages of the Unabomber manifesto. Continue reading
Finally someone on Twitter asked me: did you quit the internet.
I quit Twitter so I could play Witcher 3. And because all I could look at were assholes. I’d imagine them finding my web site and making fun of me. I’m as sensitive as the flayed corpse out of Hellraiser. I need to believe that I’m some great genius. Except when I read my own shit 99% of it makes me sick. I couldn’t read negativity about me, and I can’t even read negativity about people like me. I start imagining it’s about me. Spend all day thinking I suck. All of twitter is negative shit about people like me.
Obviously I still check my notices. Continue reading
Fucking sick of this book. Which no one will buy. Sick of uploading this shit to god damn Createspace over and over. Page breaks in Word don’t translate to page breaks in the proof. The fucking table of contents– every time you make some slight tweak it wants to repaginate the whole thing. You can’t highlight just the page break, it highlights the entire table of contents. The evil spirit of Microsoft Word reaching a spindly grim reaper hand over yours on the mouse, jamming a thousand levels of complex unwanted auto-formatting that you must weed through and correct. Matching the table of contents to the digital proof that does not match the Word document, you fix one thing it breaks ten others– the only solution is: close the laptop. Go kill everyone. Five page table of contents because there are like 100 pieces in this book. All shit. I’m a terrible writer. My whole dream is a joke. People only read my shit to laugh at me. Continue reading
You used to own a house. You used to have a pension. Now every ad is DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH SAVED FOR RETIREMENT. Check this chart by age. Yes, fuckstick, it’s better to have money than nothing; I’ve been briefed. They want you to start saving at 20. Why not 10. Why not as you’re squeezed of a slimy cunt, your mother’s screams still echoing off the tiles. Two commissioned salesmen from Morgan Stanley catch you. Explain compound interest and logarithmic growth. Hand waves over the assumption that the stock market will climb forever.
It’s coming to a head. Now I’ll invest in 55 gallon drums of water. Old Kalashnikovs that fire after you drop them in a swamp. Manacles and whips for the junior high school girls I’ll capture the very instant shit hits the fan. Chain them up in back of a taco truck, take it up into the Angeles Crest and from there up to Banff. Somewhere there’s a river and meat. Josef Fritzl it into my old age until one of my sons gets bad enough to kill me. I’m too compassionate is my problem. I could never torture anybody, rape anybody, enslave anybody. Those will be the key skills of the new world. The way coding is now.
A friend asks:
Have you made the move to the Alt-Right yet?
I know you lean Left on social stuff. As do I. But as far as racial shit.
I’d love to be racist. But I don’t have the moral authority. I steal and sell drugs and threaten people. I fuck a million women and never use condoms. I collect unemployment and get my insurance through the government. My relatives watch Kirk Cameron Jesus movies, so I’m not gonna talk shit on Tyler Perry Presents: Some Shit You Stumbled on on Basic Cable That Made You Think Maybe “The Bell Curve” Is Right. None of this except Kirk has been true for two years but I’m one pint of hobo brandy away from it. One pop away from walking to skid row in my gay shorts, smoking black tar off a Philly cheese steak wrapper from a trash can with a homeless bridge dweller whose race is irrelevant. I have more in common with a black junkie than a white office worker. At least black people talk about pussy. Continue reading
Now I’m outside trying to write and there’s literally a god damn mariachi band playing. Loud power tools from the fucking construction on the neighbor’s house. What’s next. Someone needs to come blow a vuvuzela in my ear. The high school gong corps needs to bash 1600 gongs inside my asshole. A chorus of roosters needs to crow for the dawn while a herd of elephants is burned alive. Someone needs to make me wear a jet engine for a hat and blast 15,000 Mexican car alarms inside my skull. Continue reading