Tag Archives: charles motherfucking bukowski

Jesus Christ, Now What

21 Aug

Reading Charles Bukowski poems. They will keep you honest. But honesty is a bitch when you’re employed and don’t hate your boss and don’t drink too much and don’t give a shit about women. Honesty is nothing. I think and feel nothing. Wake up, healthy breakfast, bike to the train, sit down and nod kindly at my fellow commuters. Open the laptop. An hour with no internet. A gift carved out of the day. Nothing comes out of your fingers because nothing’s there.

I don’t hate anybody. I don’t care about the government. Women are just women. They’re still out there, I still want them. But wanting to fuck some teenager on the street is so old now it’s like the weather. Nothing happens. I go to the gym. I’m unhappy that they got rid of all the good magazines. That’s the only emotion I feel in a day. Cook chicken and jerk off. Three dollar bottle of wine, fall asleep watching a movie. Nothing.

Having a normal life feels like waiting out the clock to die and even knowing that gives you nothing. People are out there writing things. Elaborate novels. Political screeds. They get pussy and make a living. But he’s right, that’s all nothing. Even these words about those things being nothing are nothing. If it isn’t exploding out of you then don’t do it, he says. Well what the fuck am I supposed to do then? Something’s gotta show up on the page. People need new words to read on the toilet. Take their mind off of work.

You need pain to make something. And it can’t be fake pain that you chase. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get hit by a truck.

Protected: Make Up To Zero Dollars A Week On Your Computer, Without Leaving Home

27 Mar

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Hey Olivia Part 2

11 Mar


Why can’t people just be normal when you see them.  Just fucking say hello for Christ’s sake.  Now I’m carrying this weird awkward memory around as I try to order at the god damn coffee shop; it is inhibiting my ability to hit on my server.  I’m at the ATM.  I’m in profile, unmistakable from the sidewalk, intent on my deposit.  I turn to leave and sidling up to the next machine is you, Olivia, turning your head to the side in hopes that I don’t see you.  Because there are so many other ginger chicks with mammoth jugs out there wearing that same dress you wore on our first date.  You’re with a dude, maybe that’s the issue.  Or you’re just a weirdo.

Well, God damn, you look good.  Like you reverse aged.  I forgot that you have good skin.  I was reading this morning, the foreword to a book of Charles Bukowski’s, and it mentioned some Latin title I hadn’t known was his.  It was your tattoo.  So that’s where you got it.  You were a Bukowski fan, I thought.  So that’s why you liked me.  I’m the shitty version of him, but then, not nearly as ugly.  A good compromise for a date.  I didn’t know his work when we went out.  Continue reading

Unemployment Diary: What Do You Do

3 Feb


Pussy is heroin for the ego.  And I need a fucking hit.  It’s been a month.  Little more.  New Year’s Day was the last time.  I know I said New Year’s Eve is an ass desert and don’t go out and fuck New Year’s and etc.  But I was wrong; I took home an attractive woman I met at a  great party, and fucked her in the morning when I was sober enough for my dick to work.  Don’t ever listen to me.  But that was a month ago.

Gotta get back on OKCupid now but what do you say, you know.  All girls want to know what you do.  I’m unemployed.  I had put that I had a shitty job, but, a job is a job.  I had listed that my income was between forty and fifty thousand dollars a year.  Now it’s zero.  When girls asked what do you do, I would lie, I would tell them some outlandish shit.  But it was a lie with a powerful truth behind it, which was: I work on movies and TV shows you know about and love and I get to meet famous people and, you know, I have a place to go in the fucking morning Monday through Friday. Continue reading