Diary: Angry at OkCupid Profiles

28 Apr

God dammit— why are all you girls so fucking boring. This is how old I am, this is where I’m from, this is what I do– I love my job!  I love my family and friends!  Go fuck your family and friends.  I hope your family and friends are all on a bus and it explodes in a fiery wreck.  I hope your job fires you and you are forced to suck dick under an underpass. You will wish your family and friends were there to help you out, but they will have died in a fiery wreck.

Just— you fucking chickenshits have to start showing a little actual personality.  Who fucking cares what people think of you— you’re on the goddamn internet. Nobody cares.

Or— let’s just… let’s just assume you love your family and friends.  From now on, let’s only make it a point to mention them if you do not love your family and friends.  Everybody loves their family and friends, even me.  Let’s just say something about your family if they beat and molested you; that’s the only thing that could possibly make them interesting. Even I love my family, although I would gladly trade them in for a family with a shitload of money, and my friends I end up fully replacing about every year and a half.

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The Socialist Nanny State Sounds Pretty Fucking Awesome

27 Apr

My friend had an abortion in Holland.  She’s hot, so my initial reaction after she told me was to go home and masturbate to the thought of popping off an unprotected nut in her.  But after that, I started thinking about socialism.

Because the whole story started out with this horror– there was some painful complication; she’d had to be hospitalized for weeks after, and it would have been a nightmare for this broke, wayward girl who is about as organized in life as any good looking unemployed actress in her twenties– it would have been a nightmare, except everything was taken care of and free.  There was no bill at the end of this abortion and then internal bleeding and weeks of inpatient care and then follow up home visits and friendly helpful people telling her what the next step would be at every part of the process. It was all free, and the people helping her out, who were employed by the government, were actually knowledgeable, caring and nice.  And from scraping Johann van der Guyinaband’s baby out of her to her final post-treatment evaluation was all part of one system, so, the nurse who told her there was some kind of ovarian hemorrhaging was able to say “don’t worry, we’re gonna take you to the state run hospital right next door and check you in and do some tests, and from there after you get released we’ll come to wherever you live and keep checking up on you for free.  So I know this sucks,” they would say compassionately, “but don’t worry, ’cause we’re gonna take care of you.”

In America, it would have been: you looking down between your feet in stirrups and seeing the abortionist cock an eyebrow suspiciously, maybe mutter, but ultimately say nothing.  And then afterward a squat, surly nurse in a briefing  room would force some forms on you saying you weren’t gonna sue before telling you you had some kind of complication and might want to go have a doctor look at it.  Wait, what?  What is it? Ma’am.  Ma’am– please, calm down ma’am.  I’m not allowed to discuss this with you, we recommend that you go to a qualified physician… and if you have insurance, you get home with your insides stinging and bleeding from having the guy in a band’s baby scraped out of you and the first thing you’d have to do is call the phone number on the back of your insurance card and ring… ring…

Para Español marque el numero “dos” … Welcome to Blue Shield of California. If you are a health care provider, please press “one” now… (wait)… if you are a member, please say “I’m a member.”   “I’m a member”  I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. If you are a member, please say–”  “I’M A MMMEMMMBBEERRRR!!!!!” All right. Please say or enter your ten digit policy number... (beep beep boop beep)… Continue reading →

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Protected: Just Stay in the God Damn Shame Hut

27 Apr

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Diary New Year’s Day 2011: I Am a Massive Fucking Chickenshit

26 Apr

I should have kissed Anne at midnight.  What threw me was her talking about needing to find a guy to make out with.  This means: not you.  But still. I could have done it.  I ended up sleeping at her place.  I don’t remember going to bed, but I woke up next to her, surprised.  And I thought she might think I was her ex-boyfriend, and wake up and realize it was me, and be shocked and appalled.  But no.

She was an excellent sleeping partner.  She was wearing tights and would like, wrap her top leg around mine as we were spooning.  And put my hand in a comfortable place near her boobs.  I keep thinking- maybe I should have fucked her, but how?  I would have been too drunk to get a boner at night and in the morning my mouth tasted like rotten tequila.  Cut yourself some slack, dude.  You don’t have to fuck everybody.

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Diary: New Year’s Eve 2010– Never Tell Me the Odds

26 Apr

Fuck- anyway.  Going to Anne’s. I will not be fucking Anne. Right?  Or I mean, what if I will be fucking Anne? That would be awesome.  But I will not be fucking Anne.

I mean, she just broke up with a dude—what does this mean?  Why do I care? She is not going to be my girlfriend.  I don’t want her to be my girlfriend. But I would like to see her naked.

I’m excited just to spend time around other human beings.  Especially chicks, who—like, a lot of my friends are hot chicks.  But there is literally no chance of me fucking them.  An earthquake could happen, and they could be splayed out naked, and I could also be naked with a boner and a beam from some building could fall on top of us at a serendipitous angle and force my dick into them, but still somehow I would not be fucking them. Whereas, Anne, and that friend of hers, there is merely a 99.99999 % chance that I will not be fucking them.  Somehow this is exciting to me.  Like, if pussy were money, I would be the guy who spends the last dollar from his welfare check on scratch tickets. Continue reading →

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Diary 2/19/11: Turning 35

25 Apr

Anyway.

Yeah, it’s my birthday.  I am thirty five years old.  This feels like a momentous age for some reason.  I am thinking like a woman,  because, for an unmarried woman, this age is some kind of shitstorm where your last viable egg is now gone and you just have a 9/10th’s empty gumball machine with only a couple Trig Palins left rattling around.  But still, I am single. I am single with no plausible hope of not being single.  I do not know even one person, out of the dozens and dozens of reasonably attractive women whom I know- I do not know even one person I would consider dating who would consider dating me.

And now I’m thirty five.  So you figure, if I meet someone tomorrow, we hit it off, we get married after a year, we spend two years traveling and hanging out and somehow saving money, and then we have kids, that puts me at thirty fucking eight when my first child is born.  And if I want to have more kids, I’ll be into my forties.  My ball sack will be full of Trig Palins.  And this is assuming that I meet someone tomorrow, even though I have been trying, trying hard, to meet someone for ten fucking years.  I have been doing everything.   But ultimately I would have to completely reengineer my life to meet a woman and make it stick.  I would have to put myself in a position where women are around me naturally. Because girls don’t want you; they don’t come looking for you; they don’t even like it if you come looking for them. You have to be forced to be in a place and your presence there has to be in no way motivated by there being girls there and they have to slowly come to like you over time.
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Alpaca Farming

24 Apr

Yeah, just stay away from alpacas, though. Because I know they have those ads late at night, between “BUY GOLD NOW” and “they’ll bring the diabeedus kits right to yer home,” and they show a little blonde boy frolicking with the angelic baby alpaca, you know. But it ain’t like that. They’re fucking surly, they bite, and their natural defense is to spit a hardened wad of mucous at your eyes or chest at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Also, the alpaca costs like 30 grand and it produces ten pounds of wool per year, which retails for $17 per pound. You are trapped breeding more and more thirty thousand dollar alpacas to sell to the next sucker, forever.

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Protected: Friend in the Hospital

23 Apr

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Reader Mailbag: Do You Actually Like Women?

23 Apr

“Jess” asks:

Also – do you actually like women? It seems like you like pretty girls and getting off, but I can’t tell if you actually like women.

I mean, sometimes.

Sometimes I like them, sometimes I don’t like them. Or rather, I like some women and not other women. I end up hanging out with tons of women these days, to the point where I am now like the annoying woman who says she can’t stand other women and all her friends are men. Because she can’t stand all the “drama,” etc.

So I like women. But then I don’t get laid for a good like six weeks and I start to hate women. If I see a woman talking to another man in a bar, and she seems interested in what he’s saying, I will hate that woman. I will hate that woman for falling for the same bullshit that that dude is pulling that he pulls on every other girl, that every other dude who is successful with women pulls, and I cannot pull, and I will resent her for not abandoning that successful charming dude and somehow recognizing, like, pheromonally, the true inner beauty of the marginally attractive drunk man at the other end of the bar scowling at her. And then later she will probably fucking complain to some guy like me about how that guy cheated on her or didn’t call her and I will sullenly think what the fuck did you expect? I will feel like I am the guy who has to soak up some girl’s tears while some other guy is soaking up that ass. I will begin to identify myself as the “nice guy” who doesn’t get laid because of some deeper inherent virtue than all those sleazy guys who are actually out there getting laid. I become exactly what surly Jezebel commenters call a NiceGuy™– a whiny self-pitying douche who morphs into a quasi-date rapist at the first glimpse of pussy.
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Dear Roxanne: Seeking a Second Job

22 Apr

OK seriously- why are you doing this? Is there any universe in which you do not land one of the worst jobs in America? Is there any way this gets you enough money to help with your debt in any meaningful way instead of merely making you so miserable that you are useless at your actual job, which you attended this expensive grad school to get? You are going to be “expressing” dogs’ anal glands at the pet groomer. You are going to be chastised by the most vigilant janitorial supervisor in the world for leaving a chunk of excrement in the executive washroom toilet which said supervisor discovered checking under the bowl rim with a dentist’s mirror. You are going to be hauling the giant bag of the day’s fetuses out to the biohazard dumpster behind the late term abortion clinic, to the jeers and taunts of protesters, and the abortion clinic will have been too cheap to even spring for an opaque bag. It will be a clear plastic bag which will on some days have a particularly horrible mutilated fetus part that will put you off your lunch, or, occasionally, a relatively intact fetus head that seems to make pleading eye contact with you from behind the plastic, and its forlorn mommy-why-did-you-kill-me look will haunt you forever. Something like this will happen. There is no one who knows you at all who doubts for one second that the second job you get will be something horrible, debasing, and destructive to all positive aspects of your life, because that is just the kind of shit that happens to you.

Don’t do it.

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