I’m mad that I don’t have a motorcycle. Jealous and inadequate. Some oaf from Kansas can get pussy back to his place from his bar. I wasted my life in an office. Sad that a thing I built up deflated so quick. But also relieved. Now back to normal life. Sit with the cat. Bed at ten PM while down the street men with chiseled faces get girls wet on the back of their Bonnevilles. Men without fulminant livers. I should get an Xbox.
Dirty Mexican Cunt
I stole this title from some other writer she’s fucking now. She sent me one of his poems. I had to beg her. She does not want to discuss her love life. Afraid it will make me like her less. Well it did, but the poem didn’t make me jealous. That would have been a problem. He has another one called Dirty Mexican Twat, she said. Parenthetically: it’s not about me.
This one is about you.
What did you expect, you fucking fool. Can’t make a ho into a housewife. Well I’m a ho and someone could easily make me a housewife. Anyone under 35 without birth defects. Anyone halfway interesting. Who reads a book once in a while. Or even not. I just want a bedwarmer. A hole to put babies in. I don’t need a woman who speaks English, or even speaks at all. I need a woman from 1232 AD who can’t read. Stays home. Doesn’t go out taking every dick from every guy in every band, every fucking bartender. All I need is one woman who likes me more than other men. She doesn’t exist. I’m not special enough. The only one who feels this way is my mother.
You made me text that girl from AA. She has less than one year of sobriety. Off limits to the ethical alcoholic. I went after a newcomer once, my sponsor tells me. Two weeks later she hung herself. I held hands with a girl from the only place you ever meet girls. In the morning, a bloody hook hung from the car bumper. An AA girl takes a thousand lifetimes of gnarly dick but somehow touching mine will kill her.
Still, he’s right. Sobriety is good. My sex habits: bad. Don’t let them touch. Already things are fucked up in the rooms. Showed this site to one sober woman last year. She showed it to another who showed it to another and so on. One day I say hi to this girl and she gives me a look like I burned her kids alive. Is she telepathic, I think. How else does she look like she can read my dirty thoughts. What could possibly cause this. I’m a stupid, stupid man.
Had to text her because you walked off the plane and onto another dick. While my bed was still warm. While I was thinking: holy shit I can still feel love. Also: now I’ve fucked a pretty girl and I get to be alone without pain.
You tell me what I already know and I get to do what I want. Which is cry about what we had. What about what we had, you sex addicted semi-pro who was in town on some old guy’s money. But that’s bullshit, calling you that. You’re an extraordinary person. You’re just sick like me. What I felt for you was real. To believe otherwise is to believe love is impossible. Which is probably true. But comprehending it is like grasping the true size of the universe. Your mind isn’t built for it.
Meanwhile my organs are failing. Could be gallbladder worms from the Philippines. Swimming in the filthy river, legs lashed up from steering the moto into some brush thicket out of Predator. No turning radius on those things, and water buffalo in the road. I have not google imaged the worms. Don’t want to shatter my faith that they’re spiny armored things with pincers. Chittering abyssal monsters like from a black smoker, or something that lays in wait for a thousand years in the Marianna Trench. Waiting on a whale carcass to drop so it can feast for a century and grow five school buses long. Really they’re some featureless nematode. Still. They can impregnate themselves. Chew each other’s heads off when they mate; their five sets of hydra-headed squirming barbed genitals. Change sex if there are no girls around. Whatever it is has a better sex life than me. It should start a blog. Someday I’ll get a text from you, you’re engaged to a worm.
In the end you gave me what I want: to be miserable. So I can keep writing shit that brings more girls to make me miserable. Once in a while I think I can’t sustain this. Some day one will feel something back. Enough to not snap at the next shiny object. For your plan to work forever you’d have to live in some Twilight Zone hell where sexual anarchy had progressed so far it made human connection literally inconceivable. Well I’ve got good news.
A Rich Inner Life
Try to remember the dead can’t hear your thoughts. Try to remember there’s no hell. If there is, you’re not going there for writing on even numbered lines in a notebook. Your mother won’t get in a car crash with her face on fire because you didn’t climb stairs properly. All people must suffer like this. They just don’t talk about it. Most able to put it aside. No one goes through the day having normal thoughts. No thoughts at all. Minds just blank drywall. Everyone grew up picturing swarming heaps of black crustaceans. Centipedes under the table waiting for the edge of a finger to brush them so they can latch on. Crawl up your arms. Armored mandibles strip your flesh down. Not to kill you. Just taking skin so your face looks burned forever. Unimaginable pain over every part of you forever. Everyone thinks this constantly. Or is it just you. Anyway good morning.
Dear Angela
I wrote another thing about you. The point of it was I wouldn’t be jealous anymore. Jealous of your stupid friend who comes in my comments, hooting about how much he tears up your ass. You fuck men for cash and prizes. Some of them are famous. Inventors. Spies. I don’t care about any of them. But this guy got to me. He has what I want with you. Come over a few nights a week and party. I can’t party anymore. Too old. Have to get up early. Write. Then I can’t write. I feel like less than a man. Fucking another girl didn’t take it away. Maybe liking another girl would. I want to like a girl like I like you.
Thinking through this piece, I got over it. You’re a sick person. I’m a sick person. It’s not good for anyone, for me to feel this way. And besides– jealous over a drunken coke whore. What then is my spiritual growth for.
I made you into more than what you are. Really you’re an (REDACTED) (REDACTED) with (REDACTED and a (REDACTED). But then, there’s a reason men fall for you. And there’s another reason deeper than that, where we connected. I don’t want anyone else to have that with you. Because I don’t have that with anyone.
Wrote after meditating in the park. High wind in the sunrise and the tassels of the tall grass tossing and hissing. The pines creaking. Long yellow magic hour sun rays over all of it. A raven croaking somewhere in his language. I remember from my fifth step that they have words. Somehow I thought it through. I forgave you. Forgave myself. Loved you for who you are instead of what you are to me. And let you go.
I looked back on the material. Thought: this is a good stopping point for the schtick I’ve been dragging out for years. It’s dishonest now. Or at least, not always the way I feel. I have hope for things. People can change. The purpose of this hobby web site is to help other people feel less alone. You can feel less alone about good things too. Hopeful things.
Anyway I figured that out. Hit save and closed the laptop. Went to the duck pond to watch the coots. Back from migration. Opened the laptop to write more. The eight pages were gone. Only one sentence left. It said: I should buy an Xbox and play Witcher 3. There was no backup. I called a data recovery place. Irrecoverable.
So I guess you’re back to being a cunt.
Gender Studies
Weekend. What do I have lined up. AA pancake breakfast. Talk to my parents. Poor mother had a bad dream about me. Now I have to call her. Love my parents. But if talking to someone doesn’t get me pussy I’d rather play Xbox.
Clean the house. Everything is clean the house. Go to the doctor wash the dishes hang with my parents. Drive homeless alcoholics to the fucking pancake breakfast. Wash the dishes there. This pain in my gut is some cancerous organ. Tree fungus all over my innards. I’ll die in agony. This weekend, my last shot before my dick falls off. Spent it helping the fucking hobos. They all have 6 kids they don’t have to pay for and get more ass than me.
I should go to that whorehouse in Chinatown. Pay a ho
oker to touch me so I don’t go crazy. But it’ll be some 50 year old. What are the odds the Chinese rub and tug by the Sunset/ Beaudry Jack in the Box has a fresh faced junior idol teen. What are the odds she’ll lovingly stroke my ass crack with her hair. Why fuck a whore in America. In the Philippines they kiss you. Fuck you raw. Here it’s a medical procedure.
Pay to be masturbated by an old shrew who doesn’t speak English. Hint of repulsion in her eyes. The only crack in her Oriental inscrutability. If she liked it it’d be worse. You’d start wondering: does she think I’m handsome. Better not blow it.
**********
Less God more pussy. Less AA more money. Less driving fucking homeless people around. More horse porn and coke. I’ve been of too much service to society. I should get a free pass to take a flame thrower to the school gym while the kids are playing dodgeball.
Less humility. More arrogance. Less pulling out. Less condoms. Less comforting some dumb needy tinder idiot afterward. Less not impregnating Pinay hookers. More impregnating Pinay hookers. Less truth more lies. Less spinach more burritos. Less family more dirtbags. More cocaine. More of the girls who come with cocaine. I’ll get viagra so I don’t have acorn dick.
Otherwise what’s the point. I’m a machine for paying taxes.
**********
Someone used to clean your house. Cook your meals. Bear your children. Take care of them. Sleep with you. Sleep with nobody else but you. Hand you a drink when you walked in the house. All you had to do was what you do now. Get up. Go to work. Make money. All you have to do now is: all that. Plus what someone once did for you. What you get is: half what you got before.
Someone used to need you. Listen to you. Now you don’t make enough money. You don’t wash the dishes enough. Work used to be eight hours. Now fourteen. She works fourteen hours too. And proud of it. Someone used to put your kids’ drawings on the refrigerator. Now she emails you Slate articles saying even in this day and age men do 40% less housework. Wash a fucking dish you god damn barbarian. 45 minutes between your drive home and dreams of your boss’s lizard eyes. 45 minutes; how come the dishes aren’t done.
I’m a feminist. But feminism destroyed life. In return 2% of us get meaningless pussy. A woman was a house scrubbing ham baking slave, sure. That’s bad. Now we’re both slaves providing data driven solutions to Millennial brand engagement in the CPG space. Slaves to establishing ownership of the trans teen bullying issue for Johnson and Johnson’s Clean and Clear brand flammable industrial solvent for children’s faces. Twice as many people work. Shit just got twice as expensive. No house. No vacation. 14 hours selling shit to unhappy people who sell shit to stupid people.
Whatever. Things were never good. People were never happy. Why covet an ideal based on Donna Reed reruns. But now I’m nothing to you. You’re a fleshlight to me. This shit isn’t working. I’m not some reactionary. But I do think it would be better if you were sold to me at 13, couldn’t vote, work, read or drive. And if it were legal to beat you.
Finally, Some Good News, Part 1
He was on Tinder. What do you do, she asked.
He was a secretary. His company provided data driven solutions to optimize cross platform branded content. He might have done something else but he’d spent 20 years drunk. The want ad said room for growth.
He built Powerpoints. When a client was on the phone he hit spacebar. Today, a Webex with Wentworth. The media planning agency. They represented the the Clear and Clean Skin Care division of the Nonmedicated Facial Cleansers and Body Washes/ Poufs division of the Consumer Packaged Goods division of Johnson and Johnson. Wentworth was a subsidiary of UAG, which was a subsidiary of Group J, which was a subsidiary of PWW Group. PWW was a holding company based in Paris. Chartered in Ireland for tax purposes. PWW bought advertising time from television stations en masse. Sold it on arbitrage markets it created. The purpose of UAG and thus Wentworth was to help create demand for advertising time. PWW could then buy low and sell high. This was illegal in America. All advertising agencies were therefore subsidiaries of 3 conglomerates out of Europe.
The Webex was about Clear and Clean’s possible cross platform branded campaign with Ellen! Its thesis was that J & J should buy in, even at at Ellen!’s stratospheric-seeming 46 CPM. J & J’s own market research found that teens and tweens identified with civil rights and related ideals. Engagement hadn’t been this significant since Vietnam. Cementing the brand to environment and/ or social justice was correlated to a 38% uptick in urge to share branded content. Tweens were tough. But in CPG you got them through the moms. Ellen! had moms.
Ellen! planned to profile a transgender teen. There were two candidates. Candy, 14, was a figure skater from Oklahoma. Sparkle, 15, a cheerleader/ poetess from Utah. Sparkle was the new face of Clear and Clean’s campaign. Candy had signed with Unilever. Both CPG behemoths wanted in on trans teen anti-bullying. But Unilever’s Dove line was entrenched with overweight over 25’s. Plus, Sparkle was biracial. Her optics were better for Ellen! and frankly, Candy wasn’t hot. Ice sports don’t test well with Hispanics. Unilever would thus be ill-advised to match the 46 CPM Ellen! was asking. Even with the surge in show engagement from Ellen’s newly adopted Pomeranian, Duchess. But for J & J it made sense.
Clear and Clean’s flagship cleanser was a proprietary solvent derived from Butane. It had been used to hose out tanker trucks that carried juice and other food grade fluids. When it had been found to cause cancer in rats this use was discontinued. R & D tried it as an upholstery cleaner and a mentholated cooling wipe for genitals and armpits. Neither tested well. They settled on a new facial product for teens. From 12 to 17 many young people develop acne. Whether they use facial cleanser or not, it arises, persists, then simply goes away. But brand affinity established at 12 drives purchase through adulthood.
There were 30 slides. He only fucked up once. The pie chart over a photo of Sparkle. Ass aloft in a strong boy’s hot palm. Silky hair and pom poms flying. She was the spitting image of the star of a video he’d seen on motherless.com. Teen Tranny Gets Rock Hard Riding Bro’s Cock. A Mexican boy with the face and body of a 14 year old girl and a narrow hairless penis with an angry curve like a scimitar bobbed on another boy’s lap. She had moves. He’d been disturbed by his erection. Quickly x’d out the browser tab. He lingered a beat too long until the Regional Brand Outreach Manager impatiently cleared her throat.
It went well. His team knew Ellen! They’d optimized Target and Tide’s co-branded Ellen! cross promotion of Jane the Virgin. It told Hispanic moms about Tide’s soothing effect on neonatal skin. Tide was a viscous blue serum derived from volcanic ash. The co-branded online video segments garnered 2 million views per day. 1/10th that of motherless.com. If J & J bit: room for growth. A career. In ten years he could run the division. Fifteen more and he could die. It’s boring to talk about, he said.
Tell me
It has to do with marketing, he said.
What do you do exactly
Why do you want to know so bad
I’m rad and I deserve a guy who’s rad, she said.
She did makeup for infomercials. Don’t match dog pictures, he remembered. Small dogs replace a child. Big dogs replace a man. Women with dogs always die alone. She had a pit bull mix. It wore a bandana.
He messaged her “cunt.” Waited for the three dots in a bubble to know she’d seen it. Unmatched her and opened motherless.com. It was his birthday. He was 39.
Where the Heart Is
I was in Boston for my father’s death and I fired up Tinder. Girls there actually match you. Message you. Can you imagine. Enough to make you think: could I live in the cold. Sidewalks packed with surly oafs in puffy Burlington Coat Factory jackets muttering about the fucking Patriots. Their fat Irish faces. I’m stuck in LA though. My mother moved here. Too much of a twist of the knife to move back to the frozen hell I talked her into leaving. Cold ground so hard you fall and hit it like a car door slamming. Can’t leave my mother. Instead she’ll get to watch her only
child die alone. Her genes extinguished.
Alcoholic Anonymous women need to stop being so ugly, frankly. Not you, one girl I’ve slept with from there. The rest of them. Cute girls under 30 don’t last in the program. Too many cool guys with free coke. Or if they do they form little packs. Them and five guys who have their look. Goth, punk, whatever. What the fuck happened to me. I used to dress cool and now I have five half cotton half poly wrinkle free adult dress shirts I conscientiously hang on the shower curtain rod. Tag says no dryer. I obey. I’m a sad old dork and I need a woman to help me dress. Without learning to dress I can’t get a woman.
I have no look. Or I look like the gray collar bootlicking office worm I am. You have to be in a band out here, or look like it. Should have stayed in my small town. My kids would be in high school by now. I could leer at their girlfriends from the top of the rumpus room stairs.
What the fuck happened. Work hard and I’m still poor. Dress like a schlumpy dad from a sitcom, own a certified pre owned mid size family sedan. Watch my puny retirement account rack up returns of 16 cents quarterly. This weekend I gotta go wash the pots at the General Service Pancake Breakfast– I have to get out of this. I need money to get back to the jungle and fuck underage teens in the face pussy and asshole. I need a chimp faced girl from fucking Palawan who can’t read and spends all day whipping a water buffalo. She thinks my hotel room is Hearst castle because it has a toilet. Or some plump guinea nurse out of Northeastern whose parents are blue collar drunks from Malden. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
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