Sunday, April 24, 2016
But I'm back baby!!
How am I doing? Well things could be worse for sure. I have no idea how my health is as I have been avoiding the doctors. Had a little run of bad luck and costs got out of control. lost a doctor over it. But I finally went and got another doctor. I'm back on my blood thinning meds which is good as I am at risk for a stroke without them.
Going to have blood drawn this week so we'll see what's going on there. I feel okay. At least I feel good enough to power through the day. Lots of weird aches and pains which could be just anxiety. Or my heart. Don't feel good enough to run or play basketball. Running stairs is still a problem. I just have never recovered my strength. It's a bit disheartening but hopefully that doesn't signal something worse.
Today I smoked a little weed. Last night I went to a casino with a couple of friends. My debit card wouldn't work there for some reason. A blessing I am sure. Otherwise I would have lost money most likely.
Currently just jamming to some UFO. Saw them in concert a few weeks back. Which was awesome.
I'm in a good mood today which is rare for me so I am just taking advantage of that fact. Chewing some bubble gum. Drinking soda. Pepsi with real sugar. I purchased one of those PUR water filters. They totally suck. Don't buy them.
Been rooting and modding my Oppo Find 7a. Been breaking it and fixing it. Currently running Color OS 2.1.5 which is the last and final upgrade from OPPO.
Feeling a bit social but all my friends are hiding on social platforms. No one is responding to my texts but Subway who keeps reminding me that they are offering subs for 5 dollars. They fucking text me all the time. They even ask if I am getting their texts. Send me reminders and shit. At least someone cares and I all I have to do is buy a few sandwiches a month and they are happy as fuck with me.
In a future post I am going to cover the SIX PILLARS of LIFE you should be living. As part of the Self Help Guide (TM).
Well Folks We'll chat again soon.
Sunday, August 09, 2015
We are all alone. But somehow this knowledge leads us to a belief that we are unique or special.
When instead we should consider the more dreary likelihood that are not clever, nor special.
We are tumbleweeds. We drag our scythe across the mythic culture of our minds. We plant the soil with seeds of our sinister being.
The brains tiny folds and twists found in the forebrain, the reason we can be human, are in fact also thought to be ditches, irrigating the hatred of 3 billion years of evolution on to consciousness itself.
The screams of our forebears will outlive us all.
Friday, August 07, 2015
One day you are going to miss me and the next best thing to me being there is reading my blog.
So this will be all you have, and you'll probably read too much into the stuff I was kidding about and not enough into the stuff I really meant to say and care about, but shit man, that's just you! That's why you let me die/ that's why you never really cared about me.
Are you lonely. Too bad. I don't want my words to comfort you. You really don't deserve anything nice to happen for you because in the end you let me down, Just like society, just like me parents. Just like every woman who spread her legs for me. You all suck and you never cared about me.
That's okay I guess. I care enough about myself for the two of us. For the three of us really. It's just self preservation mechanism so don't judge me too harshly. When you are unlovable and weird you have to love yourself.
I am not sure when I got so unlovable, but I know that it's no coincidence that I stopped carrying about the world as soon as it stopped carrying about me.
I have to get a new doctor as I am 1,000 dollars behind in payments. He won't give me an appointment until I give him money. Some strange sensations are in my chest. Feels like they are caving in. I am sure that is serious. But I have an appointment with my cancer doc in Sept.. Hopefully I live until then.
I am thirsty. I need a beer. If you'll wait I get a few and then maybe huff some PLEDGE and we can get the party started.
Is it pure cowardice to just let yourself die?
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Start with a pitcher of blue Kool Aid mixed with meth. It will taste bad. Have you ever accidentally tasted comet® while cleaning your bathroom? A splash of shit, powder chemical, and chlorinated water splashes your tongue.
Imagine your drink tasted like that except you have poured a whole bottle of comet® into a pitcher. It tastes bitter, your taste buds will explode with dissent.
This is how we contemplate life. A pitcher of blue shit shatters on the bathroom floor. The jagged edges stab your wrists and forearms. Blood flows towards the toilet, towards the shower, towards the drain.
Here. In this misery, I feel your pain. I feel your uncoiled tentacles grip. Release me. Grip.
You can stir comet® all day and the shit never dissolves. You can stir Meth all day long and the shit never dissolves. You can wipe your shit on the toilet. You can smear blood along the rim.
You already know everything. Why do people search for the truth? Truth is easy to find. It's with us all along. It's the gut feeling we've always had. We aren't stopping anytime soon. We will always need bath salts, meth, beer and weed. We will always tell ourselves we'll stop. And we will never stop.
The brain pops like microwaved eggs on a plate Sunnyside up. The brain regrets and acts like it has nothing to do with you. Serotonin receptors ping pong a tell-all to any doctor worth his salt.
The bags below your eyes swell with fluid. Stings of pain run along your backside like tiny scorpions. You pop in and out of existing. Your brain works backward like a camera obscura. Sentences stay stuck in dark recesses. Words are forgotten.
The Kool°AID man stares through the wall. Shards of glass jump to the death from your hands. Cascades of sliver. Cascades of ice. One more puff. One more snort.
An ass crack runs down the wall. An ass crack runs against the floor. A blood, shit mess. This world. This world is a blood stained, shit, mess.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Tuesday, March 03, 2015
Delusion: An epiphany at Appomattox, or I am a work of art. I will not allow you to fat shame me. Even though I be male. I am worthy. I am something. Consider me. Love Me.
I am all alone. I guess I will be alone for a long time. My brother may someday move close to me, or I to him. We are both 40 and single. Something is wrong with him though, I think he has real problems getting close to people. Sometimes I think of him as a person with Asperger's disease. He doesn't. But I haven't been able to diagnose his problems.
My problems are easy to diagnose. I hate myself. I hate my life. I have no energy, no meaning. I would hate to put that out there and actually expose a woman to that. Also, I'm quite bad looking. So no woman will have me. Currently I am entertaining a neck beard. Also, I refuse to bathe. I have forgotten to brush my teeth, change clothes, or wash my sheets.
Truly, things have gotten quite nasty lately. I have only myself to blame. Not that my initial impulse isn't to blame others. I'm a lot like all the women on Tumblr...I have expectations that don't match reality. 300 pound women don't get Ryan Phillipe. Just like 239 pound fat guys don't get wispy photog models who read Proust and explain his connection to Marx to you.
It just doesn't happen that way. I know I need to change the way I think. I have been lowering my expectations. Two years ago I dated a homeless girl who was beaten by her ex boyfriends. She had several children that she often couldn't take care of. I couldn't keep her interested. Basically she knew she could do better than me, and she was right.
At least I have stopped feeling sorry for myself. I don't waste time crying over my situation anymore. Instead I cry because television makes me sad, commercials and prime time TV is really great at manipulating my emotions. Six, seven times a day I tear up. Then I pop a anti anxiety pill and forget.
I'm in denial a lot. Like Cancer. I eat like a pig. I drink soda again. I eat at McDonald's. I don't get my blood tests. I can't afford some of the medications I am on. I am skipping treatments. I have to borrow money soon. I'll have to borrow from my mother. I have never done that. Not in my life. Either that or accept my brother's generosity (charity.) I hate doing this. I hate my job. But I need to get back soon. I need to pay back my landlord. I owe them 2,000. Jesus. I am an asshole. Just go back to work and make some fucking money. These people are allowing me to sit here and type. Why?
I have no idea why anyone would help me live. I have never done a thing, never lifted a finger for anyone else in my life. I am broke human being. I barely qualify as a moral being. I should at least kill for money. Then at least my life would have meaning. Then the evil that sits in my heart could be released, At least the world would make more sense.
People could say things like, "That guy was dirtbag." And it would be true, Instead, everyone has to donate money to my cancer fund because I'm just some sad sack that got cancer too early in life. When we all know that the Cancer has been there all along. Eating away at me from the inside. Destroying my will to live, causing me to sit here pondering death. Waiting for it all to end. God gave me this chance. HE said/ Romius/ He's your real chance now. Fuck it and give up. Let me take care of this. Stop being a coward.
Come home to me.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
I'm not telling you this because I want you to tell me how much mayo you like on your sandwiches. I don't care if you like mayo, or mustard.
I don't care if you like sandwiches at all.
Monday, February 02, 2015
Winter is upon us. Outside it's cloudy, dark and dreary. It's only 3, but looks like it's 7.
I just got a call that told me that my insurance has been cancelled and that I will need to purchase COBRA insurance. I am sure that will be a huge cost. My nurse that follows my case was the person that called. Not my insurance company. They were just not going to tell me apparently. I'm calling them tomorrow to find out what's going on.
My debit card is expired which is good news. It will cancel the paper subscription I have tried to cancel for over a year.
After my second coke I decided to go the store to purchase flour tortillas. I buy the kind that are paper thin. They expire on the 7th which means I will be eating lots of tortillas. If you are from the north or simply don't have a lot of experience purchasing tortillas, let me tell you how. Don't but the ones that are thick like cakes buy as thin as possible. Thick tortillas are terrible and inauthentic. Abuelita would never make them so.
The line was long at Food City. Someone had food stamps, but forgot their cash and had to put back laundry soap. I waited for 15 minutes. I did not have a basket and the weight of my few items grew heavy because the chemotherapy and my inactivity has reduced my strength considerably.
Next I visited the Family Dollar Store. I need a yellow marker for the online Marxist course I am taking. Also a group of notebooks. I get over charged for the college ruled paper but don't make a fuss.
The store plays Lorde's Royals in between telling you that shoplifting is a crime. They have cameras watching and encourage you to say something if you see something.
Two groups of crack/meth addicts walk in. Among the first group one blond woman in her late 30's or early 40's has a nice body. Kept trim by her addiction I consider whether I would give her money. Luckily I jerked off last night and my withered nutsack is only vaguely interested in getting released. Money problems prevent me from spending on prostitution as well. I have no problem with paying for sex morally. I think it empowers women. Prostitution is like an ancient form of Katy Perry. Girl Power and shit.
Everyone at the Family Dollar store is poor. Most do not try and hide it. The checkout girl has rat hair swept up in a loose ponytail. She offers a weary smile. I think it hides an invitation, Like I'm cute of something. I can hear the plastic tubing of my TAC line rustling under my shirt.
I haven't bathed this week and my shirt has some kind of oil stain on it. But I don't look any different from anyone else. Most people in the store are out of fashion. They wear ill fitting clothes, They can't afford to go to laundromat.
Why must everyone look so sad? Why must they look so poor? Why are they drug addicts, immigrants, and homeless?
Why I am here? I guess I am one of them. This idea makes me sadder. I haven't had any pain pills or Xanax to counter their effects today. I am susceptible to glomming onto their milieu.
Fuck it. After I get my change I walk back to my car.
Monday, December 22, 2014
They say we get but one life to live. That we ought be happy in our days. They are swift and soon behind us. But is not such a thought capricious? As capricious as the life before us?
I will not forget the sword at my back, or the dagger at my throat. Our very lives always so tender. So close to the edge always.
"But glad tidings! Run along now little master." "Forget this nonsense!" They will say.
But I will not play their game.
The outcome is predetermined.
We all lose in the end.
And the end is always closer than we think.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
And I'm like, "Wait didn't you doctors try that shit in Alabama once?"
And he was like, "No, that was with black people."
Friday, November 14, 2014
Wait. Blood. Ancient times. Blood carries disease. For instance Ebola. These ancient rules really might work. I guess some genius really did write that book after all. Stock on menstruation pads and and pluggers gentlemen. You're lady folk might be trying to kill you.
Do not. I repeat DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HANDLE YOUR WOMAN"S BLOODY EBOLA MAN KILLING REMINDER THAT YOU DIDN'T PRODUCE ME AN HEIR TWAT STUFFER!!!!!
romius t aka the cancer boy
Thursday, November 13, 2014
This just might be today's chemotherapy talking, but in my head I've been that funny all day.
I didn't have anyone to talk to today, so I have been amusing myself. I should record my inner monologue, because it's that dang funny. Like seriously funny. I am thinking CBS sitcom funny. I could get a way too hot wife, and take her out to the movies, and take her out to the grocery store, and I would just riff on all the stuff that comes to mind, even though she gets SUPER embarrassed by me and begs me not to, I totally ignore her and she just grins and bears it and that's how you make awesome sitcoms and run on sentences.*
*See what I did there?
Clever. And more clever is what we need in this world. And dammit I feel like I really stepped it up today, and the only the only person who got to share in that glory is me! But when ya think about it, that's okay. Because very few things amuse me. None of you dudes are very funny, or insightful, or moving me to tears.
Sure, there are the classics, I could be reading Marx. I not saying I haven't finished Capital, but I am more of a Western styled Neo-Marxist who appreciates the Early Marx* and not the antiquated economics (of which let's face it with it's 8th grade Algebra is really out of my reach/hardly my fault as my 8th grade Algebra teacher had enormous fake boobies and wore tons of make up.)
I don't have an ending for today's post. But you can expect me to write a bit more for a bit longer. At least I didn't use BYTE for Bit...
*For the nerds this does NOT mean that I agree with Althussuer's infamous epistemological break. For a more complete description of my views of Marx see my The Karl Marx Blog.
1. insert canned laughter
Friday, September 12, 2014
The creator of this fine blog has met with bad news. I have a blood clot. Fluid in my lungs and heart. They've also found a large mass in my lungs.
This don't sound like a program for long life expectancy.
I'll try and keep you informed if any regular blog readers care.
Friday, August 15, 2014
The end is near.
And it's much closer than we expect. I will die alone. In poverty and pain. My last meal will be a cold bologna sandwich eaten over the sink. I will wash down 6 Tylenol with a glass of half sugared Kool-Aid.
But something will happen this time. My liver won't make the correct enzymes, or will it simply implode from overuse. I will choke and stutter. The glass will fall and shatter from my hand. The orange drink will run down the badly stained tile. My head will reverberate several times from the awful impact.
My last vision will be a cockroach running out from behind the dishwasher towards me, his eyes smiling and triumphant!
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Memoirs from the short fat bald white guy who sits next to you on the bus who wants to get your attetion, but quickly averts his eyes when yours meet
Maybe I could wish death upon a lesser relative like an unknown aunt or uncle. They could die just like in that Twilight Zone episode where you would be given a million dollars if you would agree to push a button that would kill a person you did not know.
The kicker being soon after you decided to push the button a man in a suit would come knocking on your front door asking for the button back. "So where is it going?" You would ask. "Oh, don't worry..." He'd answer in his best spooky voice. "We're gonna give it to someone you don't know."
So while I'd like a million dollars and the ease of an artificially created pathos, I guess I don't have the stomach for random murder "Twilight Zone" style even hypothetically.
I am not your father's Archie Bunker.
Whatever happened to fat, middle-aged, short, bald white guys being cool? And by cool I don't mean hipster. I know what "hipster" means even without having read a Reader's Digest in the last 25 years.
What's it take to maintain the interest of females these days? Don't you get me? Maybe we can just be friends? I know you like to hang out with cool, funny guys. We can sit around and berate your boyfriend's "made up on the spot" excuses for why he banged your sister.
We can sit next to each other on the couch and you can lean into me with an insincere intimacy. And in a moment of frustrated arousal I will grab for your boob. And you can be like "That's like totally gross! That 'totally' tries to change our relationship. I don't know if I can think of you the same anymore."
But I suppose you feel the way you've always felt about fatty (200lbs), middle-aged (34), short (Hey Doug Flutie is 5 '9 too!), bald(ing) white (so-not so tanned) guys.
Ssecretly you pine for us. You want to get down and dirty, nasty like with us. You have a fetish for sex with disgusting guys. I read about it in Maxim, or maybe it was Oprah's magazine? Either way that's pretty messed up. But most likely you'll just hold "it" all in, all your perversions and go on ignoring me like the rest of humanity does.
Go ahead. Try to ignore me. You can avert your eyes ... sigh and "put up" with me when I try to be cool. You can go make fun of me with the rest of the cute waitresses in the back of the restaurant.
But I will warn you and the rest of the nation, ignore me at your own peril. The meek Sunday morning pancake eating NFL watching white guy next to you at the sports bar is a shaken aluminum soda can full of rage. I just dare your ass to pop my top. I 'll spray all over you in a sugary coated syrupy mess. I'll get in your eyes and sting bitch.
You don't want to fuck with me. I can walk into a McDonald's and shoot up a room, then order a dozen chicken McNuggets to go. Who do you think does all the stalking? Who picks up all the little girls in unmarked vans and drives them out to the middle of nowhere? Single white males who get no attention that's who. So maybe it's time to start paying a little more attention to me-that's all I am saying.
You think Caucasians can't have pathos? Or maybe you're just looking for a little more ethnic in your gravitos? Why do you think only the ghetto makes you crazy? Try the suburbs baby. I want my props! Who do you think buys up all that Gansta Rap and Death Metal? Young white suburban males. We've been killing our species since Cro-Magnon met Neanderthals.Kudos to me for the longest fucking title of my bloggin career.
2 ....the number of women who have pleasured themselves to my writing. And you know who you are. Quit asking yourself "Will he fuck me?" Of course I will. Line up my bitches, you can get all three inches of my thunder.
Please pardon the cum stained pages from my journal this entry has come from. I have no idea how they got there. Let me repeat that, "I have no idea how they got there. I mean I am pretty sure they may have come from me walking around dripping looking for a towel after masturbating.
Had I noticed the cum stains I assure I would have cleaned them up. I certainly wouldn't have allowed them to sit around for several days. That would make running over the crusted up surfaces difficult witha pen. I'd like to think that I treat my pen with a bit more dignity than that.
Do y'all remember the movie "Revenge of the Nerds III?" Do you remember it's stunning and mournful theme song? Of course you don't. It was a shitty third tier Made-for-TV movie from USA Cable Networks "The Denny's of late night TV programming."
I think their slogan was "It's late, your up--we're on, so quit your fucking complaining. Plus we've got super special guest star "Booger" returning, and he doesn't exactly get paid scale these days."
Sunday, February 09, 2014
I need more friends that drink. Drinking with friends gives me the peace of mind you get when you're alone.
I take a walk. I hope a walk would clear my head. I walk toward my neighborhood bar and watch as the Sun beams it's last friendly smile down at me. Feel the cool winter breeze on my skin. I walk alone because I like feeling the insular protection of my singlehood.
If I am going to drink at a bar tonight I'll have to walk to another bar. The next closest bar is a few minutes away along a dying former interstate. The smell of exhaust fumes is thick along my walk. I see cockroaches, but none scurry away from me. They own these streets. The roaches are bigger than mice. I keep my head down most of the way so I can keep track of them. I don't like to step on them.
Friday, January 17, 2014
I'm sorry about that fat lesbian crack. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. In fact most of my girlfriends have been fat lesbians, so I think I've learned a few things about them.
Like I know there are many different categories of Lesbians.
First there are the masculine Boy-lesbians. Boy lesbians look a lot like post-pubescent boys. They have short spiky hair, they wear boxer shorts and hang their pants off their ass like gangsters do. Boy lesbians scare the shit out of me. Boy-lesbians are militant feminists. And even though they are anti-penis they love penetration. Sometimes a boy-lesbian tries to pass herself off as a guy. Don't worry too much guys, boy-lesbians don't want to physically transform into a man, because being a boy-lesbian is way more fun. The just want to "try on" being a man. You know.. like finding out what it's like to pay for dinner and shit. Boy-Lesbians [aka aggressives] love to hook up with lipstick lesbians.
Lipstick lez's aren't even lesbians, they are just tired of guys getting "off " before they finish their orgasms. Watch out for a Lipstick lesbians. They will blame you for all their sexual problems. I know a lot of lipstick gals who've never used a vibrator or explored their pussies with a mirror or even watched an entire episode of Rosanne. How do they expect to achieve orgasm with some one else when they can't even give one to themselves?
You've heard advice that women should "discover their bodies through the use of dildos." Sound advice unless taken too far and that's usually what happens to the lipstick kind of lesbian. She discovers her clit and then goes to town. Eventually she can only get off using a vibrator and so she's ruined herself for normal dick. Fuck no! I am not mutilating my dick by attaching metal rods sideways into my dick just because your shit is so stretched out from giant black dildos and numb from that pocket rocket electrocution that you can't feel my three inches of thunder!
If you aren't a lipstick vag or boy lesbian then you are probably on of those fat lesbians. Too the fatties reading this and getting pissed off at me, don't. I know you aren't the kind of fat lesbian that turned her vagina away from dick, because the guys don't like you. You're fat. But not ugly. If you had a six pack of beer, a copy of Planet of the Apes for us to watch, and could stomach laughing at my jokes for an hour, you could get laid by me.
Then there is the reluctant lesbian, or the lesbian who just had too much religon mixed in her mommie's baby sack. Reluctant lesbians know that lovin' a chick is wrong and will get them to hell. But they have such overgrown clits that every time a hot chick walks by they get a boner like I did in 6th grade swim class. I remember how I forgot my swim trunks that day and had to borrow a pair of green see-through speedos that the school supplied for the idiots who forgot their trunks. All those cute girls walked past me and I checked out their stiff nipples and got a boner. Only nobody knew I had one because I hadn't hit puberty yet, so my little wiener was more a like a Vienna Sausage than a life-sized cock.
I have no idea if that's why I developed that fetish for naked male /clothed female porn, or if the Vienna sausage thing got me excited about Sigmund Freud, and he made me want to be a psychologist until I figured out that would require a lot of work, and I was a lot more interested in jacking off than reading books and doing homework.
(I can teach you a thing or two about fat chicks. Even Though you may hate fat chicks.)
Because you are not the kinda fat chick who's pussy stinks, you may not know a lot about stinky pussy. First point of fact. If you are fat chick and if you think you have never had a stinky pussy, then I have some seriously fucked up news for you. Your pussy stinks. Your pussy always stinks and it's stinking right now. Do me a favor. Sneak a peak down there. Ok, now go smell that finger. I hope we got clear on this, Captain Tuna! You get my point.
The best thing about fat chicks is they have cleavage. And the best thing about cleavage is it look a lot like ass, only tits and cleavage don't drip shit out accidentally. The scary thing about fat tits on chicks is sometimes those chicks don't really have big tits. I mean sometimes it looks like they got a big rack. But sometimes those tits will turn out to just be a big fold. Some fat chicks have a skinny girl's small tit genes and just love to eat. And some fat chicks just have the random bad luck to have small tits and a giant frame. I've paid money for freak shows, but I always ask for my money back it they show me into a room full of fat chicks with tiny tits.
Some things are just too freaky, even for T.
p.s. funny thing is I wrote all this shit before I watched the documentary "aggressives." I just watched the documentary because I downloaded it for free from the public library.
p.s.s. I prefer the term I invented for aggressives, boy-lesbians. Don't you? Here's the YouTube.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Whisper is a new social media web application that allows you to write out your secrets anonymously.
I have visited the website and Android application a few hundred times since Christmas. You might better categorize my obsession with the app by understanding that I have spent a few hundred hours on it. I have developed numerous friendships. Most of the friendships do not last more than a few moments. But those experiences have taught me something that I never learned in my Social Psychology classes. Nor in all my time of reading Philosophy, Ethics or Morality.
I have learned about connection. I have learned of my need for connectivity. I have discovered that I can connect with any human at anytime even when that connection lasts only for seconds or moments and I have discovered that the connection can have consequence. It can have lasting impact on me and my faith and my humanity and it can teach me that I no longer need to worry about run on sentences or my use of commas because the common man and the common women does not need commas and the common folk have theyre own way of talking and WH0 ARE WE TO JUDGE>???
I don't know those folk, nor do you. These are not the folk that sit around posting cat pictures and debating the merits of TOS and Deep SPace 9 ( a terrible series that never included cats to my knowledge.)
I learned other things these past days.
I learned my roommate doesn't feel the need to discuss his failure to make rent. But he can smoke pot, and have sex with a woman and all I will do is post 7 second snap-chats to anonymous strangers I find on Whisper jerking off to frothy vaginas that synchronously show up in my Inbox.
There. I said it. A woman's vagina is a box.
Trapping me here in this space and time. Squeezing the lumps in my nuts, like the growing tumor pressed against my thigh, or gushing over me like the squishy knee that props me up limp like, my exposed gut creeping forward and hanging on the conveyor belt of grocery store life that I call exisitence.
What I learned from Whispers you cannot unlearn There is a new level of social organization.
Do not visit the Whispers if you cannot handle this new level of intimacy/privacy/anonymity/fame
There is nothing to see there.
Sunday, September 08, 2013
There was a surprise in her eyes, a look in them that hinted that something was up.
"I wanted to see you." I said. "That's all."
I liked the way the water bounced off her head and splashed onto the ceiling. Sticking there in contraveance to the laws of gravity. Maybe something Spock could have explained.
"I wanna see you naked." I explained. I stared directly at her face. But my thoughts fondled her body.
She laughed, but it was forced. "You've seen me naked before."
"I know." I agreed. She didn't understand. But that was okay.
"But I wanted to see you."
I could have winked at her, or smiled and made things better. Made us both forget everything. But for some reason I couldn't do that. Whatever depth of sympathy or empathy that I normally can summon when I need to wasn't there.
I didn't care if it made her uncomfortable for me to watch her rub soap on her tits. I made sure that my look conveyed exactly what I wanted it to. I was going to look at you naked. Get over it. You're mine. I get to look at you naked.
Let the water run down the drain. Let me stand here awkwardly leaning into the shower with the curtain pushed aside. Watch the water whirlpool away. See your lips tremble just a bit. See you scrub your scalp with a vengeance.
See you thinking thoughts. Why don't I go away? Why do I keep looking at you? What do I know?
I know everything. What do you think? You think things get past me? I'm not 18. I'm not that stupid little boy anymore. Nothing gets past me.
"I'm going to whistle while I work!" I said that to her. Then I smiled at her. So that she'd know there was something wrong.
Gives me the sleep disorder look. That's why she was always awake. 12:30, 3:30, 4:45. No matter what time I woke at night. Sometimes she just stared over at me like a mannequin. Other times she accuse me, "What!" She'd demand.
"Nothing." I'd say. "I was just wondering if you were awake."
"Of course I'm awake. What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?"
Back then I would mumble something like, "Yelling at me." And roll over and pretend to sleep. I could feel the heat coming out of her eyes as they burned their way into my subconscious.
I suppose I should have reached back and slapped her. Gone all Alpha Male. She always responded to that kind of shit. But that would have just gotten me angrier. The fact that she wanted me to dominate her did not make me want to dominate her more. It made me lose all respect for her. It made me feel no remorse. It made me think of her as sub-human.
A pussy-ass Alpha Male needs to dominate as much as a sub-human needs to be dominated. But that kind of thinking is Pre-Nietzsche. You should really be BEYOND all that.
but fuck that
She really never was my equal. Not even in my beta days. When I couldn't get pussy to save the world. When the acne butchered my face and vomited acid. I still have the scars. But I won't dwell there.
I shut the curtain and began to shave. My sudden movement caught her off guard because I heard a soft thud which sounded like the conditioner bottle fell and was cushioned by landing on her foot. She let out a soft curse which made me laugh.
That's the ticket my dear. I'm the asshole. And this is all my fault. You never led me on. You never fucked me over. You aren't the biggest slut in slutland@slutopia fucking dildos and storing the cream cheese that excretes from your vagina in the back trunks of Stutevilles just waiting for that shit to turn into something you can sell to the willing Mexican boys to suck down stuffed inside jalapenos.
Not FUCKING you. Let's get that shit straight. Shall we?
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
But the Government isn't likely to take that path. It's not going to see innocence where there is ambiguity.
I had a Gentleman come into the store today. He asked me for a package of Postage Stamps.
I am usually addressed in this manner. Not: "Hello, Fine, Sir!"
No. Usually I am addressed from behind. The person will not be in my line. They will be six feet away. They will be screaming in monosyllabic format.
STAMPS STAMPS STAMPS
I like to pretend that I don't understand what I am being told when I am spoken to in this manner.
"Stamps?" I ask. Then I shuffle a bemused look at the fellow. I cock my head to the side. I look at them earnestly. I allow a slight deepening to set into my eyes.
"Would you like to purchase some STAMPS?"
The fellow bounded over to me, covering the six feet between us in a mear nanosecond. He told me that he needed stamps because he had to send out for his passport.
"I sent them my last passport in a plastic bag, because it was covered in cat piss."
"But the STATE DEPARTMENT didn't understand why I needed a new passport--EVEN THOUGH my last passport was covered in CAT PISS."
"So I wrote them a five page letter discussing how in my latest trip to Africa I decided to become a Cougar. And when one becomes a cougar, one leaves all the 2 legged things of the world behind. To gain initiation in to the four legged world ONE NEEDS to have the COUGARS piss all over ALL OF YOUR STUFF and ALL OF YOUR STUFF includes my PASSPORT."
I give him the book of stamps, I think a book of stamps is exactly what the doctor has ordered.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
It's Memorial Day, which means that you get another day of freedom without having to actually do anything to defend it.
It's okay. All those poor people and minorities, and white trash you love to make fun of for loving they country will be out there risking they lives & you can just go back to eating grilled salmon.
You can't even eat hamburgers on this American holiday you fucking jerk.
Not like me. I eat hamburgers every day, because I love my country. Even if one day you see me on the news getting accused of blowing shit up. We both know you guys had it coming, and everything I do is for the good of society in the long term.
It's tuff being a hero that's misunderestimated, but that's my lot, and I'm not one to to dwell on the inevitable.
I think it's time to get started. To start the heavy lifting. But we will see. We will see.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Here's what we know.
We must be the one's in charge. The government doesn't have sole legitimacy to use force. Maybe we should all be learning to build bombs.
Those crazy Russian Muslims understand one thing correctly, we live in a decadent society. Some days the only reason I get off the toilet and stop playing with Mr. Tablet and cell phone is that I feel like eating double cheese burgers from Whataburger!
Somebody should pay for that!
MOSTLY I think it should be college aged girls who don't seem to want to give me the time of day.
I can't understand why. I'm down to 206 lbs. Sure, I got out of breath just typing this. But I'm doing what I can. Like today, I just cashed in my aluminum cans. Made $8! I could totally take a young lady to share a fast food meal with me. And after giving me the hymlic we could watch Netflix, if she's got her parents password, and her brother's done streaming Extreme Coupon shows.
So buck up Americans! It's not all bad outside. Buy some nitrous, order a few fireworks. Get political. Spread the fire. And get me laid.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
the salts go on my feet and absorb into the cavities, pressing inside me
much like our shared dignity on this planet
you can shake your leg, and stare at the red plastic tumbler and take advice from the high and mighty. everything is self-created. therefore we have only a subjective corner to cry in.
>b/sorta chubby, but not too fat
get into argument over meaning of life
>sound like schizoid.
get told to create meaning
go ahead she says, "it's easy once you stop taking the easy way out."
decide to tug on toenail instead
watch puss drip out
think about making sausage for breakfast
b 3:20 in the pm
make sausage and eggs in tortilla with cheese
Saturday, February 23, 2013
So, I finally went the doctor on Friday. Showed them my toe. Doctor flips out. Why did you do this to yourself? Did you not have insurance?
"Oh my god! Oh, my god!" He stammered while crunching down on to the floor for a better look.
"We'll need an MRI, X-ray, start him on Bactrim!"
All the nurses just sat there while he waited for my excuse, why did I do this?
I told him I was afraid of doctors. Truth is, three years ago I had no insurance, didn't think I could afford it. Not sure I can now. Then the whole thing just got embarrassing. I knew I'd get the reaction I got. What's a man to do?
I'll need six weeks of intravenous antibiotics if I have a bone infection or I could lose the toe. Almost would prefer being toeless after reading about intravenous antibiotics and the possibilty of going septic. That shit is truly scary. My MRI is scheduled on Friday, but the X-rays didn't look good.
About to take the first antibiotics, we all know how much I hate them. My stomach and bowels are already giving me such trouble. This will only make things worse. Hopefully, we find out that there is no bone infection, but three years of waiting? Impossible I'd say. There will be an infection, I never get truly lucky.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
not that most of you care about suffering. at least people suffering. you are more likely to cry your hearts out at a sad puppy dying story, than to give a moments thought to your fellow man.
let me explain another way that even your emotionally defunct brain can recognize. what's sadder a baby dying or a german sheppard? what if the baby accidentally pulls a string that drops an anvil onto the baby who then crushes the puppy. who do you cry for? the puppy, right?
that's the definition of mental illness.
buy i digress.
i got up late today. so i took a three minute shower. a three minute shower consists of shampooing you hair and washing most of your body parts with one of those pink wire sponges that have replaced washcloths. i wonder whatever happened to the washcloth makers, did they get jobs in factories where they make wire brushes? or did they have too much disdain for wire sponge makers, secretly knowing that their product, while overlooked now by the market, was truly the better material and body cleaner. my secret hope is they walked out on those evil wire sponge makers and left the city to form some kind of commune where people drink unpasteurized milk and used cotton to bathe themselves.
work was uneventful, save for an argument between my ex-internet gf and a female friend from work. it got ugly at one point with erin shouting that she didn't give a fuck what tarri said, "that we are talkin and tell her to shut the fuck up."
erin likes to talk like she's a gangster but she reminds me of the actress Jamie Lynn Sigler's character from men with kids, a tv show that may be on the air for a decade, so we really ought to just come to terms with it. I mean tempest bledsoe is proving she can be a comedic actress, and the catchy theme song, and cushy timeslot mean we have plenty of time to really get in to the meat of the characters of this show.
after work i took the new roommate to the local comic store where we saw groups of nerds playing some updated game of dungeons and dragons. the group included a few of those nerdy girls that suddenly pretend to be into looting and dragon slaying and coming up with ways to get out of predicaments like, "did anyone try shooting the horse?" which just seems plain mean to me and i don't even like animals.
all these girls get jobs at the renascence fair. most of em have the acting bug. many of them don't take showers. but i would have loved them in my teen years when women wouldn't look at me. not that they do now, unless it is to cry in fear of my massive ghetto booty.
the girls at the ice cream parlor we visited after where sure looking lecherously at me, i bet it's not often a middle aged man in an aging volvo drives up in the rain with one working windshield wiper while a 22 year old girl gets out and pays for his double large oreo blaster ice cream with the waffle bowl. those girls were super jealous and jesse the roommate was furious her extra large scoop of ice cream was half the size of mine. jesse was on her period and if she wasn't bullied by the idea of getting on birth control and leaving her period and condoms stuck to the tile floor of the restroom then we'd have had a throw down.
now i'm back home. second half of a valium and two beers later i'll be going to sleep soon. i won't be dreaming of you. but then again, maybe i will. or maybe that's just half crazy sauce.
friday is the day i go to the doctor, get my poison toenail removed, maybe even the gangrene if it hasn't set in too much. i might just keep ya posted. seems like i have maybe attracted a few new readers. the light at the tunnel is always there. just worry it's a train and gonna kill me. but even then, put's me out of my misery.