Nikol. Why do you have three kids and two ex husbands. Why do you have these things. I kind of love you. You are really smart and funny and an excellent writer. And you’re good looking! You clean up really well. You are the only person I’ve met in the last two years whom I could conceivably fall in love with. Why do you have to have this weird fucking baggage—I don’t care that you were born into foster homes, getting beaten and molested, having—seriously—getting locked into a room full of bees. Is that real, or did you fall asleep watching CANDYMAN and just absorb the movie as your own memories? But yeah, why. Why can’t you be 24 and with no kid, although– I do like her kids. I do like Trast, like- we could play fucking Dungeons and Dragons together. Continue reading
Diary: Kate Flakes
9 JulFucking Kate. That is a permaflake. “Sorry, I’m gonna have to be lame and take a raincheck! (frowny face).” Permaflake! Except- she included a frowny face…. I keep looking at it. That frowny face means she is frowning to not be able to hang out with me, right? Despite not having a counterproposal of any kind and not saying anything in the intervening day and waiting until prompted by my text to say something—maybe she still likes me, right? Maybe maybe maybe. Continue reading
The Alpha and the Omega
7 JulI read a lot of “man-o-sphere” blogs. Roosh and Chateau Heartiste and stuff like that. It’s part of the reason why I write about getting laid so much, or failing to get laid– because I like these blogs. You read shit like that and you want to write about it yourself. Screeds about internet fatties and so on. Yelling at women for not having a sense of humor.
You read enough of this stuff and you pick up an adversarial tone toward women. Or rather, it brings out the natural hatred and resentment of women in a guy who thinks he doesn’t get laid enough. A guy who thinks other guys are getting laid more than him. Who thinks this relates to his own deeper worthiness, the judgment of some drunk chick. Your failure to get her to act on some base impulse when another guy was successful at it. It means you are a loser. It affirms your own deeper self hatred. And you get pissed off.
The weird thing is, I get laid plenty, and I still feel like this. I get more ass than a toilet seat despite my self-loathing being pretty dead-on in a lot of respects. I am an underachieving mean-spirited layabout and chicks still like me. Why on Earth do I get so mad at them– they like me a lot. Most of them end up fucking me, and they call me, and I don’t call them back. Why am I so resentful of women who are supposedly not wanting to sleep with me, when they are in fact sleeping with me. I’m the one blowing them off. You have to create more and more elaborate standards to keep considering yourself the victim. You become angry that nineteen year old girls under one hundred twenty pounds with small noses and perfect facial symmetry want to sleep with some famous guy in a band rather than you. You become angry that guys with so-called “game” are getting laid more than you, when in fact game is completely accessible to everybody and if it were such a big deal, why didn’t you just learn it. You become angry that guys with small noses and perfect facial symmetry have an easier time getting laid than you. Not that they get laid more than you, but that they have an easier time of it. Like being rich by your own hand and getting pissed at people with inherited wealth. Continue reading
A Message from Kenny (NSFW)
1 Jul
Not gonna lie: these are dark times. The thing that bugs me the most is that I’m never going to find a nice girl. It’s partly because, well– there are a shitload of reasons, but the only one coming from me is that I’m now a machine geared toward getting unprotected sex as fast as possible.
And this definitely does fuck with you. “One becomes as incapable of love as an old slag,” as a brilliant man once said. I’ve become a dating hack. I wear the same outfit every time, go to the same place, arrange the chairs the same way, go for the makeout at the same moment, etc. etc. etc. It’s all so rote that there is no way I could possibly have any exciting discovery about the other person. There is no way you could get in through some little crack in my persona and make me feel anything.
I was contemplating this as I watched clips of Kenny Rogers’ 1982 cinematic masterpiece SIX PACK. In it, Kenny plays a jaded racecar driver who, through a series of contrivances, is forced to take on a group of half a dozen (or “pack” of “six”) orphans whom he catches trying to steal his spare parts. At first incensed and reluctant, he slowly grows to love these lucky children and becomes a father figure to them. Many think that Kenny was overlooked for the Oscar that year, but few know that at a secret meeting the academy decided that lumping Kenny in with inferiors such as Olivier and Brando would only sully his name. And giving Kenny the award would render all future Oscars meaningless– you would simply have to award Kenny the prize again and again each year, for SIX PACK. The film also suffered controversy after sixteen year old costar Diane Lane gave birth to an infant with a perfectly groomed white beard.
A young Lane can’t contain her lustful gaze as Rogers’ musk awakens her steaming pubescent loins. Continue reading
Review: Sexual Congress with Yours Truly
1 JulEx Girlfriend writes:
“…you know I don’t even always like sex with you so much. You micro-manage, you have an adolescent urgency, your penis isn’t that big, and I don’t think my orgasm means a thing to you. But, all that said, kissing you makes my whole body burn.”
Fair enough. Siskel gave it a thumbs up though.
Diary: New Year’s Eve
30 JunNew Year’s Eve. I will have nobody to kiss me on New Year’s Eve. I will have nobody to buy a present for on Valentine’s Day. And really, I don’t give a shit about these things, but when the day actually approaches you become like the punk kid who was too hardcore to go to the prom but then gets a little pang of sadness when he sees all the other kids piling into a limo.
Diary 2009: Sara
27 JunThis chick never texted me back. Sara. Beautiful girl. We had a great date. Ended up at her house; we had a Grateful Dead singalong for like 4 hours. I for one had a really good time. And we texted back and forth, and then I sent one kind of stupid text message, and it was over. Never heard back from her. Never will. Maybe I should have called her. But no. You can’t send two unrequited texts and then call her. Maybe I should have called her in the first place. Instead of texting her. Maybe maybe maybe. Every little thing. Maybe it’s something I fucked up in some way. And I would have gotten to have sex with her. But I also would have had to listen to, and pretend to like, her horrible horrible retarded music. Maybe it’s nothing to do with what I did. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. She works 3 jobs, two of which are at night, and has to spend her days flying around on wires into the mouth of a giant puppet of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, while singing. Every day I have to drive by a billboard of the goddamn Creature from the Black Lagoon and be reminded of her. There is nothing I can do about it now. I can’t text her. Anything I do would just debase myself, make it worse. This is the same shit that happened with Erin. I’m obsessed with it. The only thing that could possibly make me happy in the entire world would be if she were to text me back. Or If I met another, equally hot chick, who didn’t suck as much. Continue reading
Reader Mail Sac: What Happened with Nikol’s Operation and How Is She Doing
26 JunShe started hemorrhaging. They had to stop the surgery. They only got three of the five cancerous lymph nodes out. The other two were too close to blood vessels, and she had been given blood thinner, and she had already bled all over the damn place apparently, and lost so much blood that she was in danger of dying.
So she’s out; she is alive; she is talking and mentally composed. She is at her house laying around in bed all day eating soup and popsicles* and watching HBO Go. The three cancerous lymph nodes being gone is good; it isn’t some bullshit where the surgery was all for nothing. Three fifths of the cancerous mass being gone, like some slave voting compromise. The remaining two they will continue to try to shrink with radiation. Which you should read in the tone of Marvin Gaye singing in “What’s Goin’ On.”
I fucking told her going in: don’t hemorrhage. You’re gonna get on that operating table and you’re gonna want to hemorrhage all over the place, but don’t do it. They need to keep your blood in your veins to finish the operation. And of course, what’s the first fucking thing she does. Stubborn. Continue reading
Julie Kim
22 JunI’m trying to track down my college ex girlfriend. But She’s Korean, and Koreans are impervious to Google.
So are Mexicans, generally. Kenny Rogers the dog was owned by somebody; there was a name on his chip but it was something to the tune of “Miguel Hernandez.” Try googling “Miguel Hernandez Los Angeles” or even “Miguel Hernandez Echo Park” and see where that gets you. It sucks if someone’s considering returning your lost dog but it’s great if you’re on the sex offender registry I guess. Mexicans have 8 last names and 15 first names so good luck finding one individual. And then Koreans are WAY, WAY worse because you have 5 last names if that.
I’m trying to track her down because she was hot, and we had hot sex, and I want a picture to remind me what she looked like so I can beat off to her tonight. Except– what the fuck happened to Julie Kim? How is somebody not on facebook and tons of people knew her and yet no one has spoken to this person in over a decade?
What if she’s dead? What if she died on 9/11? What if I’m beating off to her later and she died being roasted alive by jet fuel and had to leap flaming through a plate glass window and fall 100 stories to her death?
New Book
delicioustacos 