Don’t read this if it’s about you.
She is going crazy. Asking if she can delete my number and facebook, then instantaneously OKC messaging me saying I DON’T HAVE YOUR NUMBER OR FACEBOOK SO I DON’T KNOW HOW GET IN TOUCH WITH YOU. CAN YOU TAKE ALL REFERENCES TO ME ON YOUR WEB SITE DOWN. She is going to accuse me of rape or something. Or have some guy kick my ass. Oh well. Continue reading
Previous McDonald’s talk here and here.
I was sixteen and my mom made me get a job. Again. Learn the value of work. She was right, it’s a lesson I retain decades later: the value of work is less than fucking zero, a negative eating away at your soul and your life. So, thanks. I applied at the McDonald’s in Kingston, Mass.
You had to buy your own McDonald’s shirt and special synthetic pocketless pants so you couldn’t walk out with a ninety nine cent hamburger warmed to ass temperature. They took the money out of your first couple checks. The checks came three weeks late; they’d docked sixty eight bucks for the uniforms they’d sold you, and taxes were taken out, something like a third of your check. At that point you’d been working dozens of hours in the sweltering hissing clamoring kitchen, alarms constantly blaring, six hundred degree grills an inch away from the meat of your hands, swabbing the greasy tiles over and over with a filthy mop every time there was a two second lull in orders, getting yelled at– you got your check and it was fucking nothing. You had known what taxes were in an abstract sense, the ten per cent federal tax bracket, but what you didn’t know was state tax, city tax, FICA, SDI… weird acronyms… your check came an ungodly amount of time later and there was nothing left. The value of work. Cleaning the toilet, a filthy log of shit breaching in piss yellow water with toilet paper snaked over the bowl and onto the floor about one out of every four times you went in there– the value of work. Continue reading
“Juan Stabone” writes:
As a non-drinker, I encountered an absolutely galling situation twice in a period of three months: The girl is over my place, and everything’s going great. In one case I even have her tits out. Then she communicates essentially that she’s down with getting laid, but she can’t fuck me because she doesn’t have any booze in her/is not comfortable enough. Of course, all is lost after that.
fffffffffuuuuuuuu
They were both banging, banging hot. Not like the animals you (Delicioustacos) seem to have relations with. Months later, not a day has passed wherein I do not deeply regret both occasions. I have developed a minor case of PTSD.
So anyway, what kind of alcohol do I buy to get young girls drunk at my place? I assume there is some sort of fruity wine thing I can put in a sippy cup for them, but I just don’t know anything about booze.
Nikol says: Continue reading
FYI: Nikol D. S. Hasler, an expert in Teen Sex Education, and myself, an expert in having sex with uneducated teens, will field your sex & relationship questions if they’re at all inspiring. Send submissions to: delicioustacosdotcom@gmail.com
Or leave them in the comments.
Very little matters to women except that you don’t give a shit about them. If you can get that going, no slight is unforgivable. They are single issue voters. Passion and ambition and confidence, they will say. Good job and tall and listens to the right kind of music. Wrong. A short dispassionate unambitious self-loathing unemployed gnome is digging that ass out to some Slayer. There was just something about him.
I’m thinking about texting her. Every time I text her, I think about it. This means I have already lost. The part of you that thinks is not the part that gets you laid. The part of you that games, and strategizes. You had already lost it two steps back, if you have to communicate in a way you don’t really feel. But what do I really feel. I like you. But you better fuck me. Continue reading
This is a conversation with a friend of mine the day OKcupid blocked everybody’s pictures for their stupid “Crazy Blind Date” promotion.
I want you to remember this. She gets over one hundred messages per day. She is in her 30’s. One hundred messages per day. She is a single mother. One hundred messages per day. She lists her body type as “a little extra.” One hundred messages per day. Her “looking for” only lists “friends.” She gets one hundred messages per day. You get zero messages per day. Continue reading
Various concerned readers ask:
Did you get fired yet? When are you getting fired? Do you know what you’re going to do for a job? Are you scared? Etc.
I’m still working, but not for long. Any day. I have found no job, and that’s because I want no job. I want to be unemployed. I want to take a break and write all day, and fuck you, that’s what I’m gonna do. Not “fuck you” as in you, but you know, naysayers. I have fear and insecurity about it, that my writing won’t be any good. But fuck you, it will be good. Or at least, it’ll start out at whatever level it’s at and, one hopes, get better as I practice. Because what you’re seeing is 25 minutes per day. Maybe an hour on the weekends. As soon as I get a good idea going I have to get up and go do some work related shit. No more.
Continue reading
I punched Astrid in the back of the head, and she pissed on me. Her skull made a sound like a coconut. I forget what we were fighting about. We were drunk, obviously. She had had a party. I drank two bottles of Andre® Extra Dry Sparkling California Wine from the sale rack at CVS and probably a bunch of other shit. God only knows what she put down; she drinks like an Irish coal miner. I was wrestling with her and kind of getting on top of her and squashing her; she likes that kind of shit because she was molested. Then I popped her one. You need to understand that this isn’t some shit where she cries and calls the police; she likes to get hit. I like hitting her. Thanks, child sex predators.
Original artwork by yours truly, in Astrid’s room.
delicioustacos 