Can’t look at my Sedona pics without that bad acid feeling. Haunted house feeling. People are right. There’s energy there. It’s evil. There was a massacre, something. I hiked to one of the attractions, a giant sinkhole. Hundred ton rocks had plummeted into the bowels of the Earth. I felt like an antenna picking up a TV station broadcast by Pennywise. Feel it again now talking about it. Last night before I slept. I carried it with me.
image from joshobrouwers.com
Missed call.12:32 AM from Gracie Tinder August 2016.
Who is that. Did I say bad shit about her? Could she accuse me of rape? AIDS? Pregnant? August 2016– 8 months ago. That’s not an abortion call. That’s an I’m having it call. Good. Finally this all means something. Continue reading
She was a fat. Guatemalan– no, Costa Rican; she had a wide nose with crudely painted contouring makeup on it. She had autoimmune diseases. Wouldn’t tell me what they were but not AIDS. Some third world thing because her mother couldn’t breastfeed her. She took tramadol and about 10 other pills I couldn’t recognize. She had IBS. She was a vegetarian and also can’t eat milk eggs wheat. I can basically eat potatoes and water, she said. She was 22 though. That’s enough. But she wouldn’t come back to my apartment to have raw sex and play Far Cry Primal. I kept asking, she kept saying no thanks. Continue reading
I was up at 6AM Saturday. Two missed calls and a text time stamped midnight. I have Astrid’s phone. She said to call you. It’s kind of an emergency.
I can’t get afraid girls are dead anymore. All I thought was: if you send a text like this you better explain, faggot. Some day I’ll wake up to a text that she’s dead. I accept this. But it better say: Astrid is dead. Not can you call me it’s kind of urgent. Don’t be a chick about it.
Also: your pussy your problem. If you’re high with her you’re fucking her. You broke it you bought it. Roll her on her stomach. I’ve done this 100 times. When she starts OD’ing she fights any attempt to save her life. She’ll bite you. Don’t be afraid to pop her one. It feels good, like you’re a detective in an old movie. If you really think it’s bad call 911. She’ll wake up suddenly. She wants you to think she’s dying but she doesn’t want bills. She wants you to hit her and rape her while she’s unconscious. Trust me. I met her on OKCupid too. Continue reading
I can see myself with her but she has herpes, I tell my therapist. She waited to tell me but I knew. The signs were there. She’s over 28 and lived in New York. That alone enough. But also she knows musicians. It’s funny, he says. Most of my clients are men. But the ones with herpes are all women.
He’s gay so he doesn’t know. Listen: all women only fuck the same five guys. If you have full bore raw sex with a herpes woman for a year, you have a four per cent chance of getting it. For a man to get herpes he’s fucking 500 women a year. Guys like that don’t go to therapy.
image stolen from hollywoodlife.com
All right good morning. Sat down and instantly it’s too loud to write. Neighbors running around with their kid, their dog. Someone hauling a steel barrel full of corkscrews and broken glass up stairs suddenly made of old organ pipes. What do I want to write today. Too addled for chapter 3 of Finally, Some Good News. Even though I’m close to cracking how the main character will drive the action. Killing millions of people.
I think this thing with the abortion clinic will be valuable. My AA sponsor told me to go act as a human shield against the protesters at the baby abattoir. Part of my amends for abusing my first girlfriend. Amends to women in general. Protect them in their most vulnerable moment. You stand between fat Mexican teens aborting cholos’ babies and Westboro Baptist howler monkeys. Protect young girls who’ll regret this for the rest of their lives. Who’d be happier if they’d kept their beautiful baby and let it to live and grow. Make them feel safe so they don’t change their mind. Continue reading
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