I want this 20 year old girl to message me back. This 20 year old girl with big tits and a big ass and a cute face, good bone structure, 20 years old. Looking for casual sex. What kind of sexual experience, she asked, do I have to give you to get my own entry on your blog. I ought not to have answered while drunk. A terrible one, obviously, I said. A shitty one. Well it’s the truth. If you just come over and talk to me and fuck me good and we’re not alone in the world for five minutes, where’s the fun in that. I need you to get in my head. I need you to hit me right away with the foreknowledge of loss. That’s what Gertrude pulled off. She had her flaws but I knew she was gonna leave me so there was something to think about. Plus I needed someone to come over and pick up booze on the way home. Life is pretty simple.
Autopilot
8 Feb
(This is a selection from my book Hot Naked Tits, which you can buy here.)
He was awake. Hands on a steering wheel. Trees rushing by. Most cars were self-driving these days but he enjoyed it the old fashioned way. Everything was coming back to him. He was on his way home. Emily was making a chicken pot pie. His favorite.
The day was over and he remembered nothing. The new stuff was perfect. Used to be you’d get an image peeking through once in a while, an emotion of some kind. The phone would ring and you’d get a little stab of fear. You’d still have no idea what it was about, but you’d flinch. Now, nothing. Waking up, nice hot coffee, kissing Emily goodbye. The drive to work; starlings swirling over the river. Pull up to his parking space– it was in god damn Siberia, but, who cared; he would forget the walk. Twist the dial in the crook of his elbow left, right, left again. Then he was awake and driving and the sun had moved. Ten hour shift gone by like it never happened. Continue reading
I Will Cure Your STD’s with the Power of Prayer
7 Feb
There is a Paypal link now, per a kind suggestion in the comments. It’s under “Support” in the Sidebar. It’s not a “Donate” button per se, because Paypal fucks you on “Donate” buttons now. They will freeze your shit for not being a 501(c)3 tax exempt charity. So instead it’s a button where you “buy” “support” for this web site and name your price. You may have to put a shipping address in there because it’s an imaginary “product” but I don’t give a shit where you live and will never share your info with anybody. They could have a hot knife to my balls and they aren’t getting shit out of me.
I won’t love you any less if you don’t give me any money, and I’m not going to hassle you about it. I don’t do this for the dough. Money I receive will be spent on alcohol and women. Meanwhile a child will die from preventable illness.
Thanks
Coffee Shop Diary: One Who Is To Be Loved
7 FebThere is a woman talking about using a juice cleanse to cure bronchitis. She is attractive, but I didn’t need to tell you that. Ugly women know enough not to talk about a juice cleanse. Not to talk about astrology. Only a beautiful girl can go through 22 years of life talking about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer, how the doctors all know the real score; all their fancy chemo drugs are just a scam to keep you sick and Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know the truth because freshly harvested organic carrots don’t make them any money. Only a beautiful girl can go through decades of saying shit like this without being told to shut the fuck up. This girl, if you saw her– she hasn’t received so much as a cocked eyebrow over anything since she was twelve. The schlub she’s talking to has such a stink of the unlaid about him that she could start denying the Holocaust and he would be like “wow… yeah. Interesting.” Now she’s talking about her best friend in Brooklyn, some art project this friend has going. My friend is like, Amanda, you need to come out and help with the publicity, but it would have been weird staying there. Her name is Amanda.
Continue reading
Unemployment Diary: Money
6 Feb
Fuck– I gotta get gas. Money down the drain. Gas is too fucking expensive. I hear there’s an oil boom in North Dakota; domestic production is gonna outstrip imports and we’re closer to energy independence. Great, I’m sure we can all expect gas prices to drop real soon.
But, fuck it. Who cares. I have no money, and I don’t give a shit. I have no wife; I have no kids; I have no ailments. Whatever education I need I’ll get off Wikipedia. I have cheap internet so I can beat off and a bigass package of Von’s brand assorted chicken parts for 87 cents a pound. What more do you need. My car cost twelve hundred bucks and if it breaks I’ll buy another one for even less. You can buy an old car for how much fixing a scratched bumper costs on a new car. The Cubans are onto something; you can keep these old beasts running forever. High priced liquor is bullshit; all alcohol is caustic poison and it all tastes like ass. So Von’s store brand brandy at 6 dollars a quart is just fucking fine. They give it some fancy Dutch name, Van Der Hobo or some shit. Getting drunk on it feels just as good. Continue reading
Work Diary Part Four: Bossman
6 FebJuly 2012
My boss is a subhuman monster who should be tortured and killed in the most gruesome ways imaginable. Flaying, fire, iron maiden– pruning shears nipping piecemeal at the genitals. Acid. Wild dogs. Ants– fire ants, molasses. Death by a canoe full of flies, like they had in ancient Greece. Maybe psychologically broken first. Call him fat or something. Then physically tortured. Then killed in a slow agonizing manner. Then the corpse defiled, slashed almost but not quite beyond what is recognizable, and paraded in front of his family and whatever true friends he has, if any. Then the family should also be killed. Anyone sharing any genetic connection to this cruel and petty demon should be purged from the earth, maybe three or four generations back. Incinerate the corpses, crush the bones, launch the remnants in small packets into deep space lest they reform into this thing again. This thing that looks like a person but knows only hurt and selfishness. This weird being, animate, but without a soul. Without empathy. Torture and kill him and play his screams over the PA system in schools, as a warning. This is what happens when you are like this man. Continue reading
Unemployment Diary: What Do You Do
3 Feb
Pussy is heroin for the ego. And I need a fucking hit. It’s been a month. Little more. New Year’s Day was the last time. I know I said New Year’s Eve is an ass desert and don’t go out and fuck New Year’s and etc. But I was wrong; I took home an attractive woman I met at a great party, and fucked her in the morning when I was sober enough for my dick to work. Don’t ever listen to me. But that was a month ago.
Gotta get back on OKCupid now but what do you say, you know. All girls want to know what you do. I’m unemployed. I had put that I had a shitty job, but, a job is a job. I had listed that my income was between forty and fifty thousand dollars a year. Now it’s zero. When girls asked what do you do, I would lie, I would tell them some outlandish shit. But it was a lie with a powerful truth behind it, which was: I work on movies and TV shows you know about and love and I get to meet famous people and, you know, I have a place to go in the fucking morning Monday through Friday. Continue reading
Getting Fired Diary: Freedom Day Eve
31 Jan
Image stolen from flickr user andysternberg.
Tomorrow is Freedom Day. My last day of work. Most people in my work orbit don’t even know. I don’t know how to tell them. I don’t want to have the same conversation over and over. I’m leaving the company. They’ll try to sound out whether I left or got fired. In fact, there is some nuance. I’m getting fired, but I fucking really wanted to get fired. Like when your house burns down but you hated that fucking house anyway, it was the fucking Amityville house with demons crawling out of pools of blood and you hallucinated that every meal was full of maggots, and at least now you can collect insurance. They want to say I’m so sorry; they want to show sympathy for what they think I must be unhappy and scared about. I don’t know any of these people, I realize now. They don’t know me. Because these jobs are like getting paid to slam your dick in a car door over and over and anyone who does them is a fucking idiot. We have such a short life; I have wasted so much of it at this. I am glad to be free and I am sorry you’re still here, saying your work is going great like a battered wife talks about her marriage. Continue reading
Hey Birds:
30 Jan
So I hear cats are killing two billion of you per year. Listen up: you can FUCKING FLY, for Christ’s sake. If cats were taking out penguins that’s one thing, but you can FUCKING FLY. You sit on a telephone wire all day. If you can’t keep an eye out in your five minutes on the ground eating some old woman’s stale Wonder Bread and FLY AWAY when you see a cat, I have no sympathy. Good riddance, you winged jerkoffs.
New Book
delicioustacos 