I canceled my drinks with (REDACTED). Even though I like (REDACTED) and would totally enjoy hanging out with her. She is– she took me to a museum once. She is really smart. She knows a lot about art and literature and stuff. And I think she kind of had the hots for me. See, why couldn’t I date someone like that? A chick who went to Harvard and has her shit together and knows who fucking Albrecht Dürer is and can distinguish between different phases of his career. Who knows who Lucas Cranach the Elder is. Someone who has a finely tuned taste for the works of various Northern Renaissance engravers, is what I need. Someone who can tell apart multiple different interpretations of works by Claude Debussy. Who can hear the orchestral version of some Claude Debussy shit and know that it was orchestrated by Maurice Ravel, or whoeverthefuck. Who legitimately enjoys these things. Someone who knows about plants and animals. Hummingbirds. Insects. Continue reading
Diary: Going to a Party
7 FebThis party. Now I’m too tired to go to this fucking party. Jesus. Too fucking tired to do anything. Woke up too early. And spent the whole day alone and now I’m tired and weird. And (REDACTED) isn’t going, and (REDACTED) is going to flake. And no one I know is going to be there. And I can’t get drunk. Because I’m going to have to drive. And it’s going to be lame. And google maps doesn’t work on my fucking computer.
But fuck it, I’m going to go. Maybe I’ll get some ass. This chick (REDACTED). Even though she used to date Chris, I think she wants to fuck me. Or, I think she wants to fuck people. And I am a person.
But who knows. Maybe she’ll just fuck Chris. I bet she’s the only chick there, and the rest of it is a bunch of loser UCLA dudes. I’ll make a long drive, spent and exhausted, and I’ll get a DUI. I’ll get raped in jail, and I’ll get AIDS. I’ll spread AIDS to my cat (through a scratch or something; I don’t fuck my cat. Much.), and my cat will die. And my dick will get cut off somehow. Somehow my going to this party will result in nuclear annihilation for the rest of the planet. That’s how bad this party is going to suck. At this party, some cold I’m carrying will combine with some other virus someone else is carrying—but not an STD, because I am definitely not getting laid at this party– some virus I’m carrying will combine with tetanus I get when someone at this party drives a nail through my dick and it will create a supervirus that will kill the whole planet. But especially the people I love; they will die first, in front of me. And my car will get stolen. Continue reading
What Now, She Says
6 FebWe go out a couple times. We make out, maybe we bone. Or maybe we don’t, and I just never call you. Or maybe we do, and then we get married and move slightly out of town to some place where people of modest means can get a pretty big yard, and we get a goat, but the fucking thing is too loud and keeps chewing through the fence- they are surprisingly clever animals. Maybe it actually figures out the latch. But point being the goat keeps getting out and getting into the neighbor’s yard and eating his heirloom tomatoes or whateverthefuck- maybe we laugh at this. Maybe this discord with our neighbors only brings us closer together, like, us against the world. Maybe not, maybe you never wanted to get it in the first place, maybe you never wanted to move to the suburbs, maybe you secretly blame me for everything moving too fast and now you’re stuck here out in Calabasas or something and now you’re like 33 and if you leave me you’ll never have biological children, but if you stay with me you don’t know how you can stand even one more fucking second in this house in the middle of nowhere and separating the bank accounts is going to be such a god damned pain in the ass, and the goat isn’t cute anymore, it was a stupid idea, and it has an expected life span of like 35 more years but any place you give it away to might use it for meat and that would pretty much be unconscionable. You don’t want it, but you can’t get rid of it. That’s what it’s going to be like with you and me in like four years. Maybe. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t have a fuckin crystal ball.
Girls who can get off, and girls who can’t get off
5 FebEvery few months there’s a scientific study about how only point eight, or whatever, percent of girls can really get off through vaginal penetration. Something on Jezebel, or some shit, and then all the comments (that don’t somehow work hating men into it) are talking about how more guys have to give better head, etc.
Virtually all girls seem to get off with me, but I accept that this is a lie. If they want to pretend to get off, and not tell me, fine. I’m not going to press the issue. If a girl gets to the point in life where she’s fucking me, generally she’s fucked a thousand or so guys before me and if she can’t figure out how to come on a dick– old dog, new trick. And frankly I don’t care.
There are a couple girls who clearly actually get off, or at least put on such a kegel-and-light show that even the foremost expert couldn’t tell they’re faking. Girls who get off early, and get off multiple times. This is great, obviously, especially because if a girl pops in the first minute sometimes it’s nice, for once in your life, to give in to your own urge to pop off real fast. Nothing on this Earth feels better than premature ejaculation. Nature’s way.
Continue reading
Peanut Allergies
3 FebI had a buddy who was allergic to nuts. Before it was cool. I didn’t even know about it until a dish featuring almonds was served and he politely declined. He just tactfully, simply stated: “I can’t, I’m allergic to nuts.”
No one does that now. Anyone who is allergic to nuts, or especially people whose children are allergic to “peanuts and tree nuts,” which like “autism spectrum disorder” is now something that happens to approximately seventy per cent of all rich kids—everyone who is allergic to nuts makes it into this big movie-of-the-week where they’re going to swell up and die just from looking at a god damn peanut. Continue reading
Girls Who Like to Get Fake Raped
2 FebI have a friend who has a rape buddy. She texts him with a few hours notice, and at some point that night he comes over, fakes breaking into her house, and fake rapes her. Knowing her she probably screams her fool head off and is completely committed to yelling “no” and “stop” and fighting back, etc., and basically— like, I bet she did not arrange with him to back off when she says “banana.” Once she hits send, the rape train is coming to town.
Obviously, this is weird, but this is the kind of girl who had a real rough life and you sort of expect these things. Similarly my college ex girlfriend lost her virginity by being gang raped at fifteen and she used to beg me to fake rape her. I couldn’t do it without cracking up. It seemed to me like the dude who studies karate and when you’re drunk he says “punch me.” Like, no, it doesn’t work that way. How about some time in the next few weeks I’m going to come up behind you and punch you when you least expect it. Some time in the next month a van will pull up and a masked man will throw you in back and he will not stop when you say “banana.” And it might not even be me. I might farm this one out. You think it’s going to be me, but in fact it’s my roommate McClure and I’m getting him back for that case of Yuengling he bought.
Anyway, this came up again last night because I went on a first date with a girl who likes to get fake raped. Needs to get fake raped. It came up early, as these things often don’t— I forget what we were even talking about beforehand but she came out with how she had to dump a guy because he was too much of a pussy to choke her. She was saying that it’s a symptom of the decline of manliness basically— men are too pussified to hold a girl down and smack her around, and that’s what women really want. Her, anyway. To get choked once in a while and held down and fucked even if they say no. It felt like a let’s-get-this-out-of-the-way-early thing. And it kind of felt like a don’t-stop-fucking-me-when-I-say-no-later kind of thing.
Continue reading
Diary: The Dogs Bark
1 FebThe stupid fucking barking dogs. Incessantly, always barking. They begin at about seven every morning. Must be when they’re let out of the house. They walk out the door and down the steps to the front gate and just stand there and bark without ever stopping even for one second. Bark bark bark. Bark bark bark. And of course, there are fifteen other houses on the street with multiple loud, unruly dogs, who all join in a chorus of bark bark bark, bark bark bark. But these two, this neurotic border collie mix and his little white terrier buddy– the smaller dog, as is often the case, seeming like the boss– these two are the instigators. These are the guys who will bark at anything, must bark at everything. If you are in doubt about whether you should bark at something, you better bark at it. Continue reading
Back from the Pussy War
31 JanI’m back from the pussy war. This is the war that men fight for 20 years, starting at around age 15. Maybe sooner. You spend 20 years thinking about nothing but pussy, how to get pussy, I need new pussy, where is there going to be pussy. You get out there in the trenches and you battle for pussy, you learn about the enemy, you try to take them down.
Now I’m thirty-five and a half and some hormonal switch has been thrown. Maybe it’s just age, maybe it’s my job crushing it out of me—who knows. But I no longer give a shit about pussy. I’m back from the pussy war. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 