image stolen from healthimpactnews.com
Don’t let something be wrong with my balls. Yesterday they hurt. Today they’re unusually hot. They’re infected. It’s the cyst– the cyst that I’ve had on my balls since I was 13. That I thought was cancer because of the stupid junior high school health class pamphlet. Extend your scrotum after a hot shower and palpate each testicle, it tells you. A lump the size of a pea is cancer. It was the size of a cherry. I didn’t tell my mom for weeks. I thought I was going to die. Didn’t want to ruin our last days together. Continue reading
image stolen from edwardmd.wordpress.com
At least people I hate are miserable. At least Amanda Marcotte cried. As for the bad news: this will solve nothing. This will not collapse society. There will not be mass rapes. Life will continue to get incrementally worse. It would have happened under Hillary. It will happen under Trump. Every American must be annihilated with atomic weapons. Land given back to the coyotes. It’s the only solution.
I felt bad for her. Read about her too wracked with sobs to talk on the phone. Trying to tell a friend through her shuddering snot-cry that it was Comey… Comey… Too emotional for a concession speech. She had to send out Podesta, the squirelly jizz guzzling hustler who rapes babies then eats them for Satan. I felt bad. She has $300 million from telling the board of Goldman Sachs that the Rothschilds have it too hard in this world. She kills children. I wanted to hold her while she cried. Because she’s a woman. Continue reading
(cursed) image stolen from murderpedia.org
I’m going to kill my landlady for raising my rent. I’ll do it with my bare hands. The good thing about women is they can’t fight back. They’ll throw a knee to your nuts, always. They think it’s the magic word. But your whole life has been dodging nut punches. You just swivel your hips like breathing. She gets a knee full of thigh muscle and now she’s on one foot falling backwards. You fall on her, knock the wind out of her, get her neck with your left hand. Pull up a fist with your right. You’ve won the argument. Continue reading
Image stolen from the National Geographic Society
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
image stolen from Twitter user @jtimberlake
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
Cover design by Matt Lawrence: mattlawrence.net
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