delicioustacos

I can accept death. But not the mechanics of it. Nothing else in my ass, ever. They found a nodule on my prostate. The prostate is a walnut-sized gland under your colon. Nodule is a synonym for tumor. Per Web MD a knuckle-like hard protrusion. Knuckle-like. Of course it’s H.R. Giger. Knuckle-like protrusion twitching under gunmetal-color Berlin college girl face with steel fangs and no lower jaw. She quaffs hydraulic fluid from ridgy black intestinal tubes, tangled nightmare quasi-organic hoses pumping ooze from disembodied black chrome tits on some Satanic Contra boss apparition… Nodule means tumor. But “tumor” just means swelling. It’s nothing, he tells me. They’ll check my PSA. Some chemical you make when you have cancer. Confirm it’s nothing after I fast, get my blood drawn, go back for his next available appointment in 2032. Until then put it out of your mind. Continue reading →

Pic unrelated.

Someone left a mean comment that I’m getting old. Stop Muay Thai, start jiu jitsu because I won’t get good at striking. Which is true. But I don’t plan to book a fuckin cage match. It’s just fun. Something to get better at. I pay a man to beat me up and praise me. Clinch work, he cranks my neck down with freakish monkey strength. Later I can’t beat off because the smell of another man’s hair gel won’t wash off my palms. If something smells like a man within 20 feet I can’t get hard. He tells me the bars are good again, there’s pussy. The only manly thing I can talk about. But I can’t drink. I’m on Hinge looking at age appropriate Southeast Asians. Because Michelle Malkin and Stephen Paddock’s wife look good to me. 15 months of quarantine. 
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The shower drain used to work. And I used to not notice it. Then some ball of fat got stuck in the pipe by the sewer connection. One out of three showers I’ll hear the toilet bubbling and the drain will back up. I’m standing in an inch of lukewarm shit water I have to tiptoe in. Wash my ass and armpits fast and get out of there.

And now when it does work I’m grateful. Watch the water spiral down. Perfect little cyclone with its silvery throat. It’s not backing up today. And I think: I love this shower drain. I have the greatest shower drain in the world. This is why women love a drunk.

Rain at 2AM and one big thunderclap. Brain damaged from sparring. Brain and face damaged. My instructor whose day job is at an elementary school, who cheers you hitting pads like a kindly dolphin trainer– he wore shorts for the first time. Calves like cinderblocks. Veins thick as gas hoses snaking over them. He has 15 lbs on me and was a professional kickboxer. He went easy. I’m brain damaged. Driving home. Each stoplight had to relearn I was sitting in a car I needed to operate. Thinking ten times did I miss my turn. Is that McDonald’s supposed to be there. Continue reading →

This year sucked. I want my money back. Can the damage be reversed. A year alone. Year as a male self improvement caricature. Year in the Joe Rogan Expanded Universe. A guy talked shit so I learned boxing. Watched MMA. When you box you put your front leg out. A guy can kick it. How to prevent this. I learned Muay Thai. Primitive instinctual bare bow archery. Bought and customized a rifle. Put 3,000 rounds through it. Waiting. Waiting for savage Robert E. Howard hordes to swarm the stairs. Waiting to make my stand. Nothing happens. My ears just ring. Continue reading →