The Pussy
Page 22
I’ll never be a young man again and soon I’ll be dead. Let’s face it: I have nothing to live for. I exist because my sudden death would make other people sad. I’m of service to other alcoholics who are probably lying and using me. Showing my letters to the parole board. Having me meet their rehab counselor so they can get checkout privileges and go smoke speed. I’m alive to not ruin my mother’s life with my suicide. I’m alive to contribute to the tax base by working diligently until my body is broken. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. And now my watch begins– and it keeps fucking going and going and going. At least the Night’s Watch can suck each other’s dicks. At least the rent’s free.
Shit’s bad, then it’s good, then it’s bad. It all doesn’t matter. You can attach feelings to anything. Money, women, food, body image, whateverthefuck. I have more money than I’ve ever had. I feel poorer than ever. I’ve gotten better pussy than any man on Earth. Young Vietnamese girls coming over fucking me raw for hours and then moving in because they like my stupid web site and non-best-selling ebook. The unsurpassable pussy dream. Now I fight for an obese Mexican to let me get a middle finger in her yoga pants after a walk around the duck pond. Doesn’t matter.
Wherever I go would be a prison. But even as I’m typing the feeling passes. It’s enough to go out back, see the grass toss in the wind. Hear the hummingbirds. Their crazy one note flute chirp like blowing in a tiny bottle. Didn’t know hummingbirds could sing until I was 40. Imagine what else is out there. This is enough to live for. To see even one bird, one cloud. Know for one moment you are part of God’s creation. But Jesus Christ do I need some pussy.
I’m Too Compassionate, Is My Problem
You used to own a house. You used to have a pension. Now every ad is DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH SAVED FOR RETIREMENT. Check this chart by age. Yes, fuckstick, it’s better to have money than nothing; I’ve been briefed. They want you to start saving at 20. Why not 10. Why not as you’re squeezed of a slimy cunt, your mother’s screams still echoing off the tiles. Two commissioned salesmen from Morgan Stanley catch you. Explain compound interest and logarithmic growth. Hand waves over the assumption that the stock market will climb forever.
It’s coming to a head. Now I’ll invest in 55 gallon drums of water. Old Kalashnikovs that fire after you drop them in a swamp. Manacles and whips for the junior high school girls I’ll capture the very instant shit hits the fan. Chain them up in back of a taco truck, take it up into the Angeles Crest and from there up to Banff. Somewhere there’s a river and meat. Josef Fritzl it into my old age until one of my sons gets bad enough to kill me. I’m too compassionate is my problem. I could never torture anybody, rape anybody, enslave anybody. Those will be the key skills of the new world. The way coding is now.
Fuck the Future, Burn Your Money
I need to fail. When good shit happens it hurts. I asked for a raise. Had to wait two months to know. The whole time thinking don’t freak out. God remove my obsession with money. God let me just show up and be of service. God remove outcome dependence. Let me be patient. But that’s not how it works.
You wait patiently for the bus but it doesn’t come until your patience breaks. Only shows up after you flip out that you’re gonna be late, stomp on your phone. A quantum thing. Can’t have what you want until it means nothing. I’ll find a mother for my kids the day my last sperm cell dies. Get a 500,000 advance for Hot Naked Tits 2 the day Weimar inflation hits. Good for half a heel of bread.
This raise was gonna save me. I got the raise. Then I knew it was nothing. Still poor forever. Eke out a niggardly existence in a town where fire comes out of the tap. You have to drink it because that’s all there is. A town where six foot four single moms from Denny’s fight videos with that weird downy back hair; women with hormone levels like Lyle Alzado beat me. Break my brittle old bones. Rip off my colostomy bag. Empty it on my face. Passing teens laugh at my shriveled penis in the cold. Turkey tendon arthritic hands flailing. Poor old and alone. I can never have kids. College tuition 68 grand a year. About twice the median pre tax income of an American household. Never have kids or if I do I’ll give them nothing. Cycle starts over again. They too age poor. Catheters yanked out in the street by hooting teen mobs from World Star.
Fuck education. College is a scam. But my kids not going to college: unconscionable. I went to fancy prep school. Wouldn’t trade it for the world. The education was seeing how rich people live. 5,000 families in the country get relief from money fear. It takes four generations living off the interest of the interest. By the time the panic’s bred out of them they’re 1/16th owners of islands off the Connecticut coast. Grandfathered in before some law that no man should own that. Dozens of horses in their name. Second cousins gifting them nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine dollars every Christmas birthday graduation that they don’t even notice. It just sits somewhere accruing money and money and money. When I worked in real estate I’d look at property titles. Every single one under some family trust. Wealth must be multigenerational. If you’re not born rich you’ll never be. Unless you’re the sacrificial lamb who grinds yourself to the bone hustling so thankless descendants can forget you. People don’t talk about how fucking hard making money is. Whoring lying hustling to outcompete other hustling liars.
I’m about in the top ten per cent of income earners now. The top quarter of households. But a house in LA costs half a million at least. Rent is fifteen grand a year at least. On a block where if your bike isn’t embedded in a cube of solid steel it will instantly vanish. The median income of a household where I live is like 38 grand. How the fuck does it work.
We do have Weimar inflation. “Inflation” only counts off brand TVs made by Bengali slaves. Not food housing healthcare and education, not taxes upon taxes. It all goes up and up and up until you absolutely must inherit Saudi money to afford a shack. A textbook. A tongue depressor. The government will never save you. Capitalism is pure evil shit but anything the government touches, worse. Public schools just packed with MS13 face tattoo illiterates, grizzly bear sized microcephalic Denny’s fighters who’ll machete my gangly meek children. I’ll get out, you think. I’ll go to Couer d’Alene or some shit but the only job up there is jerking off donkeys. California money moving up into the mountains fleeing Mexicans, everywhere just rich old bastards ruining it. Wherever you go they suck so much out of you that your wage level means poor. To be upper middle class they make you move where the neighborhood association charges 20 grand a year to chide you about lawn ornaments.
I got the raise which means I suck I’ll fail I’m doing a shitty job they’ll fire me. Retroactively suck back my bank account. I can’t work anymore. I fucking hate this job, all jobs, but I need twenty god damn years of money to retire. Every year save enough to live half a year. So I need to work forty more years. That’s alone. No wife.
No kids to get scholarships to fancy prep school, where I learned how rich people are. Also Latin. Reciting the Aeneid. Something to keep my mind occupied the summer after, working third shift in a candle factory. That Cape Verdean bank robber who’d done 20 years for murder said he was gonna fuck me up. I’d lost a trick in the spades game on our 1AM lunch break. He kept glaring. Virgil kept me focused whacking the label gun on crates of Yankee Bayberry votives instead of panicking. Nine dollars an hour minus two bucks to the temp agency. Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris. I’ll have to work in a candle factory again at 80. Be a janitor again. Reach my hand into back office toilets again, dislodge black tar streaks of fat grizzled insurance men’s long thick greasy fibrous all meat diet logs. And every girl asks: what do you do.
This money is a curse. I’ve seen the poor. They’re happy. Every person in the Philippines, a joyous idiot. God give me specific brain damage that renders me unable to work. God make me a drooling twitching vegetable. Vaguely aware that it feels nice when an orderly balms my sores. God let me not dream of freedom. It kills me.
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