William Randolph Thirst
29 Jun
(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)
No matter how much pussy I get I’m Elliott Rodger. Couples on the street make me sick. Tepid Tinder response means I’m a chromosome damaged power line baby. My mom should sue a drug company. No response means I don’t exist.
Had a date yesterday. I liked her. She’s pretty. Likes the same books as me. She too is a writer toiling in obscurity. Worried about losing her voice in work, worried about time. We lock in on the same sentences in stories. I want a relationship. So I did what my sponsor told me: don’t make a move. Instead I said: I’d like to see you again. Peter Brady voice crack. She said yes but I think she was lying. At the end I gave her a peck on the bottom lip. We agreed to go to dinner this week. I felt like I had no dick. Continue reading
Hot Naked Tits
28 Jun
I put my best shit into a book. It’s called Hot Naked Tits. 3 bucks even on Amazon because $2.99 is a dirty lie. Kindle & Kindle apps only for now. If it does OK I’ll have some printed.
What can I say. Go fuckin buy it.
Agitated about this. Trying not to put significance on it. But it is significant. No getting around it. Then again– I can do this now because I’ve come around to not giving a shit. I don’t need the money. More people have already read my shit than are gonna buy the book. A fucking lot of people. I have succeeded. This is gravy. Continue reading
Shit Piss Cunt Fuck
14 Jun
image stolen from nowandgwen.com
We both know I won’t make 30, I told her. What will you put on my grave. “Kiss Joy as it Flies,” she said.
She died at 4AM Wednesday morning. 36. Heart attack. Drug related. Funeral is tomorrow. I think about putting a snow pea flower in her coffin. I think about her in the coffin and I have to cry.
She’s the other voice in my internal dialogue now. I have to write about you, I tell her. I don’t know what to call it. Maybe “Goodbye Baby” but I never called you baby. Yes, that’s stupid, she says. Obviously shit like “RIP” is out; “She’s Gone,” “She Died,” what the fuck. I can’t use your name. I’m afraid your mom will read it. She’ll think I’m spreading shit that you did drugs. Well you did– you did a ton of fucking drugs. Order an eight ball at 10PM and cook it all up and then another eight ball at 3 in the morning. I had work the next day. Woken up by your douchey fucking dealer from San Diego with the spiky hair. He wanted to fuck you but who didn’t. At least he was respectful about it. Just get a quarter ounce at the start of the night, I’d say. Trying to sound cool. Like I was top secret drugs guy too. Really I was scared. Continue reading
Reader Mailbag: What is Your Workout
31 May
Matt asks:
Would you ever consider posting your workout?
I’m built almost exactly like you – 6’1″, naturally skinny, and jacked up nose. My ball bag is well-proportioned however, but that is beside the point. Anyway, your physique is pretty much my endgame. I broke my shoulder recently and am just starting to feel well enough to get back to the fitness grind. I could use something different, because I plateau easily.
I got this question because I post shirtless twitter selfies. I do this because I grew up a flabby sack of shit and now I’m not. I use social media to beg other men to look at my naked body and love me. Because in my heart I hate myself.
Anyway– here’s how to look like those pictures: Continue reading
Diary: Buying a Car
24 May
image stolen from strollingwild.com
Fucking money. 20 thousand dollars I may never have for a thing I don’t need. I could get a craigslist car for five grand. But fuck that. No more tow trucks. No more haggling with Armenians.
It has a sunroof. Picture driving to the desert. The stars. A girl. A girl… I’m buying the fantasy. All wheel drive in snow. 4 more horsepower than previous models. Have to haggle over interest rates. They know I’m a sucker. Don’t show them your cards. Don’t tell them your mommy can cosign for you if your welfare queen credit score is an issue. Don’t tell them this, don’t tell them that. Be prepared to walk away. Continue reading
Reader Mailbag: Where the Fuck Did You Go
10 May
“C” asks:
Where the fuck did you go
I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not fucking anyone. So: nothing happens.
Wake up. Eat granola. Healthy stool. Shave. My car is broken. Imprudent to spend the money to fix it. Take the bus to the train to my workplace, where I struggle to be of service to the best of my ability. 9 hours of that. Train to the bus to the walk back home. Call the cat in. Eat leftovers. Jerk off to a black man impregnating an overweight Asian woman. Read three pages of A Feast for Crows. Fall asleep. I dream that I’m drinking. The feeling is: oh no I fucked up. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 