Tags: alcoholism, philip motherfucking seymour motherfucking hoffman, russell motherfucking brand
You Should Message Me If Part 3
8 Feb
I want someone to reenact Frazetta paintings with, basically. I in my burnished brass codpiece, chiseled deltoids rippling as I swing a double-bladed fire axe at a demon spider with sixteen cat eyes. You, astride the rampant beast in chains, nude but for a tattered bikini and a seal fur cloak that conveniently blows aside from your breasts and crotch in hot winds stirred by a distant alien volcano. Your buttocks could be credibly described as “meaty orbs.” My eyes speak of hellfire and lust as I land the killing blow. The unholy death shriek of the beast echos against the jagged black crags in the middle distance. Three moons look on. With another heave of the blade I split your chains. You are free, but your heart is my slave. I look around, furtively. I need a rag to clean off the stinging spider ichor. There is nothing. We are wearing virtually no fabric. I shrug, and we bone anyway.
How about it.
What Do You Do Part 4
8 Feb
image stolen from renegadegolftraining.com
You know those Staples commercials where they show corporate board meetings. Where it’s clear that the people who made the commercial never had a job. That’s what my office looks like. Dark veneered wood. Gray file cabinets. A conference room where dumb platitudes are projected in Microsoft Powerpoint. I am wearing a bad suit. Other men in bad suits walk behind me chattering. They say numbers and facts about money into phones. They pause to listen to other numbers and facts about money. I look at a monitor. On it is a white spreadsheet with information about money. I look for the cell that tells me about someone’s money. Find it. I pick up a phone with many lights and buttons. Push numbers. Ask a secretary for the person with money. If he– and it’s always he– if he picks up I talk to him about his money. I do this for most of the day, most days, so my boss who is rich can be more rich. His office has golf trophies and two big windows. My office only has one window. But it overlooks a golf course. This is desirable. I have a view of a water hazard. It pleases me when the hazard disrupts a golf game. They look like ants from my window but I can read their frustration. Life is only good when someone has it worse.
What about you.
Suicide Girls
15 Jan
image stolen from nytimes.com
Right before the plane took off she sent me an email. Said she was going to kill herself. Cut-and-pasted the research she was doing on method. Pills, carbon monoxide, helium. I knew all of these. Used to hear about them in texts from Astrid. Before that, other women.
They’re great communicators. They know to show not tell that they’re serious. A mere ”I am going to kill myself” means nothing from a woman. Even Anne Sexton and Sylvia fucking Plath wrote volumes of warnings first. Dragged it out over years. If you hear it from me once, I’m already dead. Went out with a bullet hoping WordPress’ “schedule future post” feature worked. Continue reading
Drunk Thoughts on Global Capitalism
8 Jan
Previously on “Drunk Thoughts”
Last night I consumed a pint of Christian Brothers® brandy from Royale Junior Liquor Market and sat down to determine my position on global capitalism and the future of the labor market. This was not inspired by Drunk History:
There are three people who want a job for every job. This doesn’t count people who said “fuck it” and just left the workforce. People underemployed, part time, cleaning toilets with a lit degree.
We don’t make anything physical in America now. The thing we do make, computer code– Mark Zuckerberg is lobbying congress so he can import labor for it. Otherwise he might have to train people. Those people might take that training and do something with it other than make him richer. Can’t have that.
It will get worse. Practically, there will be no jobs soon. First you will be replaced by cheap overseas labor. Then cheap overseas labor will be replaced by robots.
We hear this and we ask: but what will we do for work?
How will we be slaves? Continue reading
The Thirst
8 Jan
image stolen from 6thgradeliteraturevocabulary2011.wikispaces.com
Now I need pussy again. Even though it hasn’t been long. Barely even fucked the last girl; she got scared and asked me to stop. I reminded her of some past trauma. But it went in. It counts. What was that, six weeks. Already I’m ugly in the mirror. Two weeks off from the gym and my body is pasty and fat. Objectively there’s maybe a three per cent difference. If I’d just torn off a new piece of young ass I’d look within striking distance of Ryan Reynolds, soft bathroom light be damned. Six weeks.
I’m acutely aware of my lack of money, my lack of job prospects, the filth in my house. Cat hair, grease and spiderwebs everywhere. Boxes of old bills and DMV letters I don’t need but can’t be assed to sort through. Fish tank with long tufts of kelly green algae blowing in the filter current. Edges of the cat’s litter box spattered with shit. Taint smelling underwear hanging off furniture like Tibetan prayer flags. When you stop getting laid this shit starts to matter. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 