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
Can’t stop looking at twitter. Reading about the UVA rape. Everyone is constantly being raped, no one is ever raped– weird twitter and the manosphere fighting over it… god, the sweet drama. There’s a picture of the girl now. Too late. No beating off to a rape scene you know is fake. Continue reading
Clearing out the vault. Here’s some shit you might have read this year, if I could have cracked it: Continue reading
I was in Boston for my father’s death and I fired up Tinder. Girls there actually match you. Message you. Can you imagine. Enough to make you think: could I live in the cold. Sidewalks packed with surly oafs in puffy Burlington Coat Factory jackets muttering about the fucking Patriots. Their fat Irish faces. I’m stuck in LA though. My mother moved here. Too much of a twist of the knife to move back to the frozen hell I talked her into leaving. Cold ground so hard you fall and hit it like a car door slamming. Can’t leave my mother. Instead she’ll get to watch her only child die alone. Her genes extinguished. Continue reading