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
image stolen from online-instagram.com
I need a girl who’s a total loser but not bad looking. Who some other guy hasn’t got to first. I need a girl who has no job no car no place to live but not because they smoke crack or some shit. I need a girl who’s smart but no education. Could some day be a good mother but not a girl from a good family, ever– no one who talks to her dad. None of this good college Fortune 500 shit, I need a girl who earns minimum wage at the water store but doesn’t feel compelled to describe herself as CEO of me incorporated or some girly Etsy shit. Ambition makes me puke. I need a girl with no pets no friends who’ll move in with me and shut the fuck up while I play the The Witcher 3. Not even The Witcher 3— I play The Witcher 3 so my Witcher 3 character can play Gwent, the game-within-a-game in The Witcher 3. A girl who won’t talk I’m playing Gwent all night. Just watch. Continue reading
image stolen from Twitter user @jtimberlake
Thirsty but not thirsty enough to to fuck girls ugly enough to fuck me. Supposed to write today. Won’t happen. I have ideas in the shower. They vanish as I soap my asshole. I’ll write nothing. Nothing for a year and that’s fine. Ten years, twenty years, until I’m dead, who fucking cares. If you want something you can’t have it. It’s when you remove desire that things come. Actually no– if you don’t want something you cant have it either. You just can’t have anything. God is a demon who eats suffering. Our world a rich banquet.
The fish tank is too loud. I meant to meditate, take a shit while reading the finest literature– instead I looked at the Witcher 3 subreddit. Re-read the first pages of the Unabomber manifesto. Continue reading
The toilet clogged this morning. When the landlady fixed my shower she also put some giant volume of something– concrete maybe– in the tank. So water isn’t being used in each flush. She’s been obsessed with this for years. First she tried a Mountain Dew 2 liter filed with seltzer, which gassed out and floated uselessly. Then a couple attempts with some kind of surgical bag full of gel. Continue reading
Finally someone on Twitter asked me: did you quit the internet.
I quit Twitter so I could play Witcher 3. And because all I could look at were assholes. I’d imagine them finding my web site and making fun of me. I’m as sensitive as the flayed corpse out of Hellraiser. I need to believe that I’m some great genius. Except when I read my own shit 99% of it makes me sick. I couldn’t read negativity about me, and I can’t even read negativity about people like me. I start imagining it’s about me. Spend all day thinking I suck. All of twitter is negative shit about people like me.
Obviously I still check my notices. Continue reading
My new collection The Pussy is out. Crack open The Pussy, tear up The Pussy, The Pussy is available used, etc.
How about some positivity. Therapy’s working. Two sessions, we got to blaming my parents. I have homework, to think about how my parents fucked me up. This morning I conceived of them as ordinary people. It made me sick. I’m like them. Lower middle class tax payer. Throwaway sentence in the history books, in aggregate with other schlumps. The smallfolk dwelled in smelly apartments, paid bills, jerked off feverishly waiting for their Family Pak of chicken to cook. Still, they found meaning in love and children. Except one guy. 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