Photo credit: the reptilians
My new collection The Pussy is out. Buy The Pussy, get The Pussy, tell your mom about The Pussy, etc.
If my sister reads this she’ll try to get you fired, she says. Even with the fake name. She gets vengeful about this sort of thing.
Well what can you do. What I said is true. So I said it. Maybe someone will get me fired. Maybe I should have started anonymous. Not shown anyone my shit. Not put up Youtube videos of my face for radio and voice for silent film. But: some people find me to fire me. Some people find me to fuck me. I want to get fucked more than I don’t want to get fired. 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
My new collection The Pussy is out. Pay for The Pussy, own The Pussy, put The Pussy on a pedestal, etc.
Now I’m thinking about her while she’s not thinking about me. Has not ever thought about me. She’s thinking about video shoots that guys from bands invited her to, while I’m thinking about her. Cool interesting people are inviting her to swimming pools. I’m buying unnecessary trash bags at Target to get out of the house.
********** Continue reading
I need to fail. When good shit happens it hurts. I asked for a raise. Had to wait two months to know. The whole time thinking don’t freak out. God remove my obsession with money. God let me just show up and be of service. God remove outcome dependence. Let me be patient. But that’s not how it works. Continue reading
Good morning. I’m at Woodcat. Again, this coffee shop is poorly designed. Everyone can see over my shoulder. If you can read this: suck my dick. I love raping children. Hitler was amazing. Nigger nigger faggot Jew, etc. Continue reading
You used to own a house. You used to have a pension. Now every ad is DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH SAVED FOR RETIREMENT. Check this chart by age. Yes, fuckstick, it’s better to have money than nothing; I’ve been briefed. They want you to start saving at 20. Why not 10. Why not as you’re squeezed of a slimy cunt, your mother’s screams still echoing off the tiles. Two commissioned salesmen from Morgan Stanley catch you. Explain compound interest and logarithmic growth. Hand waves over the assumption that the stock market will climb forever.
It’s coming to a head. Now I’ll invest in 55 gallon drums of water. Old Kalashnikovs that fire after you drop them in a swamp. Manacles and whips for the junior high school girls I’ll capture the very instant shit hits the fan. Chain them up in back of a taco truck, take it up into the Angeles Crest and from there up to Banff. Somewhere there’s a river and meat. Josef Fritzl it into my old age until one of my sons gets bad enough to kill me. I’m too compassionate is my problem. I could never torture anybody, rape anybody, enslave anybody. Those will be the key skills of the new world. The way coding is now.
I have that feeling of wanting to walk to Skid Row and get black tar, of wanting to fuck a hooker raw, but you can’t do either anymore. All the bums deal speed. It’s too easy to make. Trying to get another drug is like trying to buy American. The whores cost at least a hundred and they make you wear a condom. What’s the fucking point. I have that a feeling of wanting to jump ahead in time Billy Pilgrim style to the part of the Tinder date where she’s on my bed on top of the blankets. Black panties pulled to the side. They don’t match her bra; she didn’t plan on this; she didn’t shower. Perfect. That feeling of not wanting my entire fucking day to be typing in a coffee shop with some herbal tea because coffee is too strong a drug now. Having it after noon makes me cranky. I could just beat off but there isn’t dirty enough shit on the internet now. Mule porn means nothing to me. Fat girls being used crying, Punch and Judy Russian rape videos– all diminishing returns and that’s why I can’t go get a pint of whiskey or a little balloon of black tar from an old black lady’s mouth– I’m cursed to know it does nothing. It’ll just require more and more. Girls are like that too and money is like that too and the way out is to be of service to others but others can go fuck themselves. What I dread doing is exactly what I’ll do: herbal tea in a coffee shop, overhear some yuppies’ discussion about Coachella, post repetitive shit on my web site. I could go on this Tinder date but I don’t want to fucking perform. I don’t want to prove myself worthy of you. I want you to show up and fuck me. That’s why I typed everything I would say already and you can read it for free on the internet. I want to fuck somebody or punch somebody or take that motherfucking drink, but I won’t, I’m a pussy; I’ll post repetitive shit and text my mother and cook a nice healthy meal, leftovers for the week, go to bed early. Go to work, not get fired, save money for what. For what. For fucking what. Oh shit– new Game of Thrones tonight. Never mind, today will rule.