Consider Using Public Transportation
2 AugDriving to work today. Not taking the train. This means my future wife would have been on the train. A beautiful woman, in a good mood, primed for conversation. Ready to make the first move. What are you typing, she would ask. I would have been working on my book. Certainly not some bullshit blog post about some bullshit topic and every other word is “fuck” and “cunt.” No. I am writing a novel, I would have said. She would be impressed. Let’s get off in El Monte, she’d say. Take my hand and we’ll run up into the mountains. Forget about your job. We’ll find some place with flowers and just fuck forever.
Now she’s sitting next to an empty seat, or some hobo. We will both die alone.
Train Diary: Share the Load
2 Aug
image stolen from dailynews.com
Guy talked to me for the whole train ride this morning. Friendly. Possibly because of speed. I met him because I went to take a piss in the train toilet. I kept rattling the handle, thinking it was stuck. Turned out he was in there taking a shit. Who takes a shit on the train. He emerged carrying a huge wad of those brown paper towels and when I came back he had squashed them into a ball and was picking tiny bits off, flicking them at the window.
He had been in prison, was in for seven years. Not clear if it was all at once. I didn’t ask what for. I’m the type of white person who congratulates himself for knowing that’s against etiquette. Had his first kid when he was 19, before he went in. Then another when he got out. Then another, another, another. Three women. Youngest kid was 2. One of the girls was fucking him on child support, he said. A welfare queen, on the food stamps, state aid. Rest of them never asked for nothing. Child support fucks you, man. They will garnish your shit. Take sixty four per cent. That means, I make a hundred dollars, I get to keep forty four fucking dollars man. Continue reading
Look upon Two Hours of a Woman’s Inbox, and Despair
23 Jul
I’ve covered this before, but in case you need further discouragement.
Relax, You Are Doomed
21 Jul
image stolen from findagrave.com
You’re not gonna get throat cancer from eating pussy and you’re not gonna get dick cancer from HPV. You’re not gonna get AIDS or syphilis or herpes. That thing on your dick is an inflamed hair follicle. Trust me; I know. I have made my body an experiment, fucking the entire internet unprotected on a first OKCupid date and then living through the paranoid terrors of a slightly itchy penis the next morning. It’s all bullshit and your doctor knows it as soon as you walk in the door. Heterosexual men are basically immune to STD’s. You couldn’t get one if you tried. Continue reading
There Is No God, But
21 Julwe still have the mountains and the hummingbirds. Or a good drink and a good fuck. Even a good shit and a good jerk. Try as you might, you cannot escape small pleasures. The flowers please you in spite of yourself, as you walk down the street muttering. Despairing over no text message from some girl you’d get tired of if she texted you back. Worrying about work. The clouds look painterly at sunset every god damn day and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. Even if you shut the blinds the magic hour light leaks through. A baby smiles at you in the checkout line. Sees something in your eyes. It was not lost.
An Open Letter to My Neighbor with the Dogs
19 Jul
image stolen from dog.blog.abc101.com
6:45AM
I am a nice person. You’ve seen me in the street. I have nodded warmly. If you then said “how are you,” I responded “great,” or some other polite lie. I am a nice person. I take care not to back up too close to your car on street cleaning day, even though spaces are tight. I once thanked you for planting rosemary and sage in your sidewalk median where I can easily access them in a pinch. They have flavored many chickens.
But here’s the thing with you: every morning I want to crucify you. And your son, the one with the stupid haircut, his oafish teenage smile and his stupid god damn baseball hat– I want to crucify the two of you. I want to do it in front of your dogs while they’re duct taped to a bench or something. Restrained in some way that they’re immobile but not so distracted by the pain of their bondage that they can’t pay attention to the tableau. Which is you, in agony, radius bones splintered with galvanized nails pounded through some scrap two by fours as I take one of those little torches they use for crème brulee to the most sensitive parts of your body. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 