Ex Girlfriend writes:
“…you know I don’t even always like sex with you so much. You micro-manage, you have an adolescent urgency, your penis isn’t that big, and I don’t think my orgasm means a thing to you. But, all that said, kissing you makes my whole body burn.”
Fair enough. Siskel gave it a thumbs up though.
New Year’s Eve. I will have nobody to kiss me on New Year’s Eve. I will have nobody to buy a present for on Valentine’s Day. And really, I don’t give a shit about these things, but when the day actually approaches you become like the punk kid who was too hardcore to go to the prom but then gets a little pang of sadness when he sees all the other kids piling into a limo.
What would be nice is if dog shit returned to the Earth quickly. You hear about how flies and bacteria are remarkably efficient at bringing nutrients from waste organic matter back to the soil in a grand circle of life, but dog shit, which is just a pre-digested protein bonanza that any self-respecting bacterium should be proud to call home– dog shit just sits there for weeks turning black and encrusted and slowly drying out. So, come on, flies and bacteria. Come the fuck on. It’s like hearing someone bitch about unemployment while walking past 15 help wanted signs.
Note: this biography is about Kenneth Donald “Kenny” Rogers the golden-voiced and immaculately bearded performer, not the dog.
1938. Small town on the outskirts of Houston, Texas. A rough-hewn town. Out in the cracked Texas plains. Tumbleweeds, cactuses, possibly other succulents. Scrub and chaparral. Low slung bungalows with no indoor plumbing. Instead a pineboard outhouse with a quarter moon shaped hole carved in the door like outhouses always have, that the locals refer to by some quaint vernacular such as “the jakes.”
The type of town that has a sign saying “N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you in (TOWN NAME),” which implies weirdly that they would be welcome in the daytime. N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you here– but by day, enjoy our fine restaurants and shops. Maybe it’s a courtesy. Like, they have vampires that only prey on blacks. Continue reading
If I did all the work I was supposed to do, there would still be more work. If I read all the things I was supposed to read– which would be a fucking superhuman feat, let me tell you. Reading twenty scripts and two full novels every week, if you had nothing else to do, would be pretty sustainable, but factor in that it’s the part of your job meant to be done in the off hours, nights and weekends, above and beyond the eleven hours per day that you are sitting on a desk concentrating on work related tasks– and then factor in that the vast majority of this shit just sucks. It would actually be a pleasure to read twenty good scripts and two smart, interesting novels per week — twenty scripts that were cool thrillers you couldn’t put down, or comedies that made you laugh; two novels that actually inspired you and taught you something new about the human condition. Or even a giant mass of hackish works that were nonetheless suitable for moving up the chain in this crass market-driven Hollywood world. But they always all suck, they are always not viable; it all turns out to have been for nothing. Destroying your scant leisure hours with crap, it all turns out to have been for nothing. Continue reading
This chick never texted me back. Sara. Beautiful girl. We had a great date. Ended up at her house; we had a Grateful Dead singalong for like 4 hours. I for one had a really good time. And we texted back and forth, and then I sent one kind of stupid text message, and it was over. Never heard back from her. Never will. Maybe I should have called her. But no. You can’t send two unrequited texts and then call her. Maybe I should have called her in the first place. Instead of texting her. Maybe maybe maybe. Every little thing. Maybe it’s something I fucked up in some way. And I would have gotten to have sex with her. But I also would have had to listen to, and pretend to like, her horrible horrible retarded music. Maybe it’s nothing to do with what I did. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. She works 3 jobs, two of which are at night, and has to spend her days flying around on wires into the mouth of a giant puppet of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, while singing. Every day I have to drive by a billboard of the goddamn Creature from the Black Lagoon and be reminded of her. There is nothing I can do about it now. I can’t text her. Anything I do would just debase myself, make it worse. This is the same shit that happened with Erin. I’m obsessed with it. The only thing that could possibly make me happy in the entire world would be if she were to text me back. Or If I met another, equally hot chick, who didn’t suck as much. Continue reading
She started hemorrhaging. They had to stop the surgery. They only got three of the five cancerous lymph nodes out. The other two were too close to blood vessels, and she had been given blood thinner, and she had already bled all over the damn place apparently, and lost so much blood that she was in danger of dying.
So she’s out; she is alive; she is talking and mentally composed. She is at her house laying around in bed all day eating soup and popsicles* and watching HBO Go. The three cancerous lymph nodes being gone is good; it isn’t some bullshit where the surgery was all for nothing. Three fifths of the cancerous mass being gone, like some slave voting compromise. The remaining two they will continue to try to shrink with radiation. Which you should read in the tone of Marvin Gaye singing in “What’s Goin’ On.”
I fucking told her going in: don’t hemorrhage. You’re gonna get on that operating table and you’re gonna want to hemorrhage all over the place, but don’t do it. They need to keep your blood in your veins to finish the operation. And of course, what’s the first fucking thing she does. Stubborn. Continue reading
I have a hernia, I think. And my nuts hurt, too… or rather that muscle right under my nuts, the cremaster. I was about to take a piss at the office; there are three urinals– two normal ones and one short midget one– and I go for the one in the corner, and this agent walks in, short guy… and instead of going for the midget urinal on the other side like etiquette would dictate he has to go for the middle one right next to me. And normally I don’t get stage fright but this fucker looked at me just as I was taking my dick out of my shorts and made this sort of meaningful eye contact– not a homo thing but this weird kind of contemplative, philosophical look, and I had to really ponder this guy’s inchoate preverbal communication for a second while I was also very conscious of the smooth warm flesh of my penis in the other hand… and it weirded me out. Continue reading
My binge eating has transcended the point where it brings on euphoria. Now I eat until I experience gut-spliting pain. I eat beyond my physical capacity to eat. Like 10 slices of pound cake at a buffet. 35 chocolate chip cookies at a pilot premiere. And if I need to take a break, if I can’t possibly take in any more, I reach for the booze. Liquid food.
My life is full of buffets now. I can’t take drugs anymore and nobody will fuck me. Grinding my body down to a thin wick on the stairmaster has burned out some central fuse that tells people when to stop eating and I’m left with infinite hunger, a bottomless need to cram anything at all– especially sweet foods– into a hole that will never be filled. Eating is better than fucking, better than masturbating, better than having some great intellectual insight, better than writing or guitar playing or anything constructive. Eating and its horrible guilt, and its corresponding self-flagellatory hours shredding my tendons and bones on the stairmaster… this awful cycle of regret and further self-debasement that happens because I have no girlfriend and very few friends and so quite simply nothing else to do with my time.
delicioustacos 