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
An aspiring blogger writes:
Keep in mind, obviously you’re a stranger, and you’re just trying to get your own thing together, and you don’t owe me anything, but your work is an inspiration to me on a personal and professional level and I seek to emulate it in my own way! So feel free to respond or not respond, but hey, questions.
a) obviously, you have the very real problem of people you know in your real life “finding out” about your blog. How do you balance that? I read some things about you going on dates and being worried the girls wouldn’t like you once they’d read what you’d written about them, and about being concerned about the possibility of being fired by HR once they started tracking the sites you visited at work….I want to start a blog/monetize it, and have been worried about this same problem. So I don’t know how much actual advice you’ll have for me, other than “it is what it is”, but I wanted to know how you balance being authentic as possible in your writing and not burning bridges!!!!
My life is meaningless. I don’t care if it collapses. I hate working. I’d love to lose my job. I have no wife no girlfriend no children. No chance at any of those things. 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.
(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 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
He was reviewing his finances. He’d worked two years. Now he had six months of money.
If I get fired tomorrow and couldn’t collect unemployment. Six months of the lifestyle to which I’m accustomed. About half to rent. Car payment. 30% of it’s interest even though the loan is 6% interest. The car was 16 grand but I’ll end up paying 29 grand if I stay on schedule. How financing works.
What do I have, he thought. The car. Some guitars. What else. My bike got stolen by the citizen offspring of undocumented whatever you call them now. Rent sixteen grand a year, shit not bolted down always stolen instantly. Like a doughnut on the beach snatched by seagulls. A laptop. An Xbox One with a used copy of The Witcher 3, which replaced a wife or girlfriend. 20 grand cash. 8 grand in credit card debt that had been charged off by the bank for two years now. That he’d been paying down 1% and 1% and 1% to keep Bank of America– actually Banc of America, their credit card division, from suing him. Garnishing wages. After paying 8 grand I owe $13,000 on a $16,000 car. If I pay a grand a month I’m out in about a year. Then hack away at the charge card. Call your creditor, Suze Orman told him. Ask to negotiate up to 50% off by offering one lump sum. They said fuck off. Continue reading