Diary New Year’s Day 2011: I Am a Massive Fucking Chickenshit
26 AprI should have kissed Anne at midnight. What threw me was her talking about needing to find a guy to make out with. This means: not you. But still. I could have done it. I ended up sleeping at her place. I don’t remember going to bed, but I woke up next to her, surprised. And I thought she might think I was her ex-boyfriend, and wake up and realize it was me, and be shocked and appalled. But no.
She was an excellent sleeping partner. She was wearing tights and would like, wrap her top leg around mine as we were spooning. And put my hand in a comfortable place near her boobs. I keep thinking- maybe I should have fucked her, but how? I would have been too drunk to get a boner at night and in the morning my mouth tasted like rotten tequila. Cut yourself some slack, dude. You don’t have to fuck everybody.
Diary: New Year’s Eve 2010– Never Tell Me the Odds
26 AprFuck- anyway. Going to Anne’s. I will not be fucking Anne. Right? Or I mean, what if I will be fucking Anne? That would be awesome. But I will not be fucking Anne.
I mean, she just broke up with a dude—what does this mean? Why do I care? She is not going to be my girlfriend. I don’t want her to be my girlfriend. But I would like to see her naked.
I’m excited just to spend time around other human beings. Especially chicks, who—like, a lot of my friends are hot chicks. But there is literally no chance of me fucking them. An earthquake could happen, and they could be splayed out naked, and I could also be naked with a boner and a beam from some building could fall on top of us at a serendipitous angle and force my dick into them, but still somehow I would not be fucking them. Whereas, Anne, and that friend of hers, there is merely a 99.99999 % chance that I will not be fucking them. Somehow this is exciting to me. Like, if pussy were money, I would be the guy who spends the last dollar from his welfare check on scratch tickets. Continue reading
Reader Mailbag: Do You Actually Like Women?
23 Apr“Jess” asks:
Also – do you actually like women? It seems like you like pretty girls and getting off, but I can’t tell if you actually like women.
I mean, sometimes.
Sometimes I like them, sometimes I don’t like them. Or rather, I like some women and not other women. I end up hanging out with tons of women these days, to the point where I am now like the annoying woman who says she can’t stand other women and all her friends are men. Because she can’t stand all the “drama,” etc.
So I like women. But then I don’t get laid for a good like six weeks and I start to hate women. If I see a woman talking to another man in a bar, and she seems interested in what he’s saying, I will hate that woman. I will hate that woman for falling for the same bullshit that that dude is pulling that he pulls on every other girl, that every other dude who is successful with women pulls, and I cannot pull, and I will resent her for not abandoning that successful charming dude and somehow recognizing, like, pheromonally, the true inner beauty of the marginally attractive drunk man at the other end of the bar scowling at her. And then later she will probably fucking complain to some guy like me about how that guy cheated on her or didn’t call her and I will sullenly think what the fuck did you expect? I will feel like I am the guy who has to soak up some girl’s tears while some other guy is soaking up that ass. I will begin to identify myself as the “nice guy” who doesn’t get laid because of some deeper inherent virtue than all those sleazy guys who are actually out there getting laid. I become exactly what surly Jezebel commenters call a NiceGuy™– a whiny self-pitying douche who morphs into a quasi-date rapist at the first glimpse of pussy.
Continue reading
Sexist Coffee Ad
19 AprI love this video.
I never think about feminism in terms of what shit actually used to be like. I think about it in terms of what shit is like now, where feminism is people commenting on blog posts, battling an endless war over who has the bigger right to complain. People demanding the right to walk down the street without feeling fear. Not demanding that some specific thing change, or that someone do anything practical about anything, just– I demand somehow that I no longer experience the subjective emotion of fear. I demand that I stop feeling pressured to look like a skinny girl in an ad. I demand that men do something about this. Men stop rape. Etc. Seventy seven cents on the dollar. And then men somehow stupidly getting engaged in this meaningless battle, saying what about our complaints. Our complaints are valid, how come you guys never think about us, etc., which– shut the fuck up, dude. The only way to win here is not to play. I love complaining as much as the next guy but once you get into complaining about other people complaining, and they fire back with how dare you complain, you can’t even begin to grasp the scope of my complaints, thousands of years of complaints, waah waah what about the menz, etc., which, yes, people who spend their entire intellectual lives complaining have a knee jerk reaction to infantilize and mock other people’s complaints. Why go down this rabbit hole. Continue reading
Old News: The Magic: the Gathering® Guy and That One Chick
18 AprOriginally posted 8/30/11:
So, no one who is possibly reading this post has not heard about this:
The girl who went out with a guy off OKC, found out he was a world champion Magic: the Gathering® player, was ostensibly appalled and wrote a Gizmodo article about how she was stunned and it’s a huge dealbreaker and etc.
Couple things. First, as Forbes was quick to point out, of course this is an obvious troll. This woman, desperate to make a living in the non-lucrative world of blog writing, has just said “fuck it,” you know, I need something that gets a million hits. So I’m gonna write about how I’m a chick who was appalled to date a nerd, thus getting the two commentingist, complainingest groups on the planet to catch fire over my article. Chicks and nerds.
Throwing in the Jizz Towel
16 AprSo– I no longer give a shit about getting laid. Or I do, on a visceral level, like if I see a hot young chick with big tits jogging down the street I get horny. Whenever the nineteen year old mailroom girl comes by to deliver the mail, I get all pheromonal. We have a thing together, a flirtatious thing. I need to figure out how to make something happen with that.
Except I don’t, because that’s the thing. Aside from the most basic animal lust, I do not give a shit about getting laid. I will not go through the slightest effort to get laid. I will not say or do anything at any time that is any different than if I were not trying to get laid. Which I’m not. Trying to get laid.
Like– twice in the past few weeks I’ve had good first dates with hot, reasonably interesting girls that I’ve gotten along well with. Perfectly solid girls. 4 stars on OKCupid for sure. Each time we ended up back at the apartment and it got physical; in one case the chick wouldn’t take out her puss cuz she had a yeast infection, in the other I ended up performing oral sex on her. So while obviously I tried to have sex on the first date and it didn’t happen, sex on the second date, which in both cases we had quasi-planned that night– sex on the second date was fucking GUARANTEED. And both times, I blew it off. I did the thing that girls do to me– I texted them that day that I couldn’t make it without proposing a specific other time that we could go out. Because it was too hot, I was too hung over, the drive was going to be a pain in the ass… I did not make the simple effort just to go and harvest the fucking that I had painstakingly sewn on those first dates. I could not be bothered to reach my hand up and pluck the ripe fruit from the tree. Too much work. These girls would have had to volunteer to come over to my place some night when I was already drunk basically.
To My Future Wife
13 AprI have been looking for you for fifteen fucking years. Different cities, different scenes. I dated a crackhead and a needle junkie, thinking they might be you. I went on dates with hundreds of girls. I went to every party, every bar, every class, every stupid fucking extracurricular activity looking for you. I was in a bunch of bands; I figured you might show up. I got a job in the movies so I would seem cool when I met you. I learned how to cook. I toiled at the gym for hundreds and hundreds of tedious hours so you would be pleasantly surprised when I took my shirt off. And still, to this day, I go out almost every goddamn night to some sadass sausage fest in the faint hope that you might be there. So how about this. How about YOU start fucking looking for ME. Whatever I’m doing is obviously not right and I’m not going to join a goddamn quilting class or something. I’m done. I’m going to be at my apartment playing Xbox and why don’t you just show up and fucking knock. I’m tired of paying all this rent.
Internet Pussy: The Cave of Forgotten Dreams
11 AprI’m good at internet dating.
This means I’m good at taking a girl out, getting her a little drunk, and then fucking her. I’m good at steering the second date to dinner at my house so I don’t have to drive to get laid. I hear a lot of “I’m not usually like this” so I figure, you know, I must be onto something.*
Anyway. Point being, I am good at internet dating, and that is horrible, because it’s one of those things that if you’ve had enough practice to be good at it you’ve failed in some larger sense. Like— being good at pulling your own teeth. Being good at showing people you’re not a pussy when you show up to a new prison. It’s awesome that you’re a badass but the idea is that you figure your shit out and don’t have to go back. I wanted a relationship out of this, not 5,000 pieces of pussy. I wanted some god damn companionship. Someone I can call when the clouds are pretty or something and say, you know, go look at the pretty clouds.
Instead, I have merely gotten a ton of meaningless ass. And then I’ve taken the confidence from getting that ass and taken it into the real world to get other, even more meaningless ass. And it’s made me complacent. Maybe there is viable girlfriend material out there but I can’t be bothered to look for it because I’m driving out to Sherman Oaks to bone some nineteen year old.** Continue reading
New Book
