Thursday, March 15, 2018

Go ahead

Go ahead

I’m bored. It’s the kind of boredom I think we all get, coupled with the kind of boredom only sociopaths get. The kind of boredom that says nothing will ever satisfy me again. The kind of boredom that says nothing is interesting, and nothing ever will be.

When you come across that kind of boredom, your brain starts to panic. It starts to freak out a bit. It decides all the normal parameters are out. It takes out all of the superficial or the societal limits. Your brain goes crazy for a bit. It decides that only the craziest impulses, the darkest thoughts, and weirdest impulses are what count. Are what matter.

That’s where ideas like choking yourself to sleep, or cutting your balls off come from. You gotta be careful man. If you ignore the brain long enough, if you keep it from active and meaningful stimulation long enough, then the brain revolts.

It will create the stimulation it needs. And when the brain creates without limits, well… Then you can’t be upset with it. You are bringing this shit on yourself.

Friday, March 17, 2017

Leonard part 6

I went to Las Vegas last week by myself. Maybe it was two weeks ago, I have a hard time remembering stuff.

I took the Greyhound bus there. 8 hours from Arizona. Greyhound advertised free WiFi but the speeds were terrible. Check your email, but that's about it.

I went by myself because I don't have any friends anymore, and I don't like people. I mean I still want to have sex with human females, but that's about the extent to which I'd like to interact with folks.

Conveniently, the bus drops you off right next to the Plaza Hotel and Casino on Fremont Street in downtown Las Vegas. I love staying at the Plaza in particular and downtown in general.

Downtown retains at least some of the old time character of the old gamblers and dirty lifestyle that represents the true nature of Vegas. The strip is too sanitized with corporate feel good bullshit. Though in reality, either way you'll piss away your hard earned dollars in the casinos.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Hello friends

So weird that I don't write to you anymore, no? I yes , sorry. I am going to try this new thing where I just write short stuff to you. Nothing big. Nothing phenomenal. So today I had some pain in my biopsy place on my chest. I am not sure why. Maybe nothing, then again maybe something. I am not really looking forward to figuring that out. Instead I will just ignore it like I have ignored my health for the past year or two. I am still alive so hopefully I will continue to stay alive. Not that I give three shits of living. I still have nothing to love or to live for. . . I don't really care so much keyboard won't let me break this into paragraphs without editing so I will do that much later perhaps...nothing interesting is going mom sent me 140 dollars for my birthday that was nice...not sure what I'll buy....maybe a smartwatch...Donald Trump is still president elect? Correct? This can't be so....oh well you bastards really deserve him. Not Cameroon . I feel like the people of Cameroon have done nothing to deserve this, but who knows....maybe y'all are big dicks down there.

Oh shit. I'm pissed . I got the damn text to paragraph. Oh well. Love you guys. Talk to you later? Maybe I start podcast. I missed doing that , but I don't have anything to say. Not anymore.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Ok folks I got a Bluetooth keyboard

I think I am going to start posting a lot more content since I have a Bluetooth keyboard to type on my nexus 9. I So much easier than typing on my computer, plus I get the swiftkey predictions, so I might even type faster than before. I I'm kinda excited so we'll see if it makes a difference .

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Welcome back

I bet you guys missed me,  I am gonna say I miss you too.  I'm just keeping it real.  I feel like I need to get back to blogging a bit.  I have had a few good ideas and some nice turn of phrases and you guys have missed out all because I have been to lazy to write them down for you.

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.


Romius T.

Sunday, August 09, 2015

Anxiety is like a sinkhole, you never know when you are standing on quicksand

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

The cancer can't return if it never left

I don't know about you, but I am damn confident that the cancer has returned.  I am having trouble breathing again.  But this time I really don't care.  I think this blog should just be thought of as a really long suicide note.  I'll keep writing and one day after I am dead you will come along and read it.

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?

I think so.  But then again, I have always been a coward so I don't see the reason things should change.  I never got my radiation done.  I have no idea if I am cured.  Everyone around me acts like I am cured just because I gained 76 pounds of fat recently.

Yes. I am fat.  You can be fat and have cancer.  You can be nice, you can be an asshole.  Nothing seems to matter as to who gets it.  Just random chance.  I think my gall bladder is fucked though.  I will need a new one.  Or maybe they just remove the whole thing.  I don't care anymore.

I think I used to be funny.  But I don't think I am funny anymore.  I don't know what happened.  But I am really not funny anymore.  It really sucks, because I thought I could always hang my hat on that,  But I bore the shit out of myself now.  I hear my flat 'try too hard' comments and I'm like..."Who the fuck are you?  Please shut the fuck up.  You are like SO not funny now."

What else do I have though guys?

Have you seem my fat face?  It's kinda sad.  I am old and no one loves me anymore.  

OLD people depress me because I am a victim of the society that I live in.  I want eternal youth.  I just want to be able to play a game of pick up basketball again.  But my decapitated toe and my lungs just say fuck you.  I give in too easily to the depression and give in to the momentum of  my life which is mostly not leaving the house.  Mostly it's just me sitting here alone typing on screens and typing into social networks and drinking beer and cola and smoking pot that makes me a bit wired and crazy and forgetful.  I am losing my keys tomorrow for sure. But masturbating to weed is nice and way better than sex with girls though i am thinking that sex with girls is something I miss.

Women are turning against me because I am loser.  The good women I mean.  I can't blame them.

There is a trashy skank at work who might fuck me.  Let's just hope I get her pregnant,  I need to start a family with all my sickness, all the nothingness that eats at my heart, all the cancer that stops and starts and spreads before me.  Let it eat away at me.  Let me wither on the vine like Social Security during a Republican's administration.

Donald Trump is my hero.

I said it and 
i wont take it back
grizzly mom bear 

Rescue me. 

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

How to be A Kool Kid

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


This is an urgent MEN'S RIGHTS MOVEMENT (MRM) ACTION CALL to BOYCOTT KENNY ROGERS. Kenny Rogers is an incarnation of Evil.* He is Lucifer. He is the deceiver.
Kenny Rogers stopped caring about men the day he wrote the deliberately deceitful song Coward of the County. The song, ostensibly a celebration of non-violence, is in truth a celebration of the myth of the violence-loving man.
The song begins it's deception by lauding the hero/coward for his "turning the other cheek" and for his "walking away from trouble."
But soon we discover that a true hero never walks away from violence. What the song really glorifies when the coward "turns to lock the door" is an apotheosis of destruction and fisticuffs. We learn that a real man is defined as a beast, and that in the end HE MUST fight in order to be considered A REAL MAN.
Can we only blame Kenny Rogers? Or is there a sinister plot somehow involving Hillary Clinton here?
Kenny Rogers penned the tune during the 1970's, a period of time when feminism was rampant, bras were burned, and Hillary Clinton was prosecuting America's best president before Reagan.
In addition to running the corrupt effort to destroy a great American, Hillary Rhodam Clinton was a well known figure in the CIA program that secretly dosed high profile American male celebrities with LSD. Perhaps this explains the deeply rooted feminism found in the Coward of the County...
Certainly, I find it difficult to understand why such a masculine specimen like Kenny Rogers could pen a song that would disparage an entire group of men...We ALL KNOW that FEMINISM has a profound and secret revulsion at all things male like beards and masculinity and it goes with out saying that the 1970's Kenny Rogers was a PROUD and MASCULINE man with a massive and proud (and one could say) REGAL beard and I for one would not put it past a feminist like Hilary to be jealous of such a beard and to secretly pine for such a beard for herself or to at least date a man with a massive awesome beard like Kenny Rogers has (and should we mention that he makes an awesome chicken?)
The MEN"S RIGHTS MOVEMENT also takes GREAT ACCEPTATION to the women who convinced KEnny ROgers to get plastic surgery as we all know that it is only the craven woman who in her vanity requires the scalpel and sword to beautify her. I see no other reason a man like Kenny ROgers would entertain the idea of plastic surgery. Perhaps his affiliation will Dolly Parton was used to inculcate this once great man with the hidden agenda of Hillary Clinton.
To sum up: Stop buying Kenny Roger albums. And did you know that Hillary Clinton was running for office? She's running for president to take away your rights as a man. It's open season on white males in this country and we need to get our country back from the bra burning hippies like Bill and Hillary Clinton.
May god rest your souls and have a very blessed day.
*{Not to be confused with the Sci-Fi Fantasy series of books Incarnations of Immortality written by part time pedophile Piers Anthony.}
For more information oN the Men's rights movement please watch FOX news and Bill O'r Reilly.

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.

My best friend is leaving town.  Not that it matters as we hardly see each other anymore since she moved back in with her parents a few months ago.  She only lives about 40 minutes away, but it might was well be on the other side of the country.  But now I won't be able to say,  "I could always go visit."

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

Near the end

Unlike you, I am very aware.  Overly aware of everything.  Even the nature of my breaths.  I imagine that is why I am altering my CO2 levels.  It is why I am literally gasping for air as I write.  Too much thought and we mess up the unconscious nature of our living programs.  The animal in us was not meant to take control of the process of living as with such detail.  Though the doctors and the television will doubtless tell us differently.


Why are you reading about me on the Internet?

Sometimes I like mayo on sandwiches.  But only on sub sandwiches, not on regular bread sandwiches. And not a lot of mayo, just a little. Too much mayo ruins anything.

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

Suicidal Musings:Towards a Theory of the Social Psychology of Poverty

I poured a glass of coke into a plastic 16 oz red cup that is generally reserved for parties by teens and college students.  It was actually my second glass.  The first coke is my coffee and the second is my breakfast.

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

Outcome dependent

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

Is that a bad thing?

Cancer didn't change my life.  I mean I get to make more cancer jokes now, and you can't make feel to guilty about those, as I am cancer ridden.  I guess it's because I know I am not going to die.  My oncologist said so.  He's like, "Romius, you are totally going to live.  This cancer gets cured all the time.  I don't even know why I'm wasting my vast talents on you.  Are you sure you even want to all this Chemotherapy?  Maybe we could just give you a little and see what happens?"

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

God is lookin' out for me

People are always saying that God is looking out for me.  He might be.  He might also be looking to kill me, and just isn't doing a bang up job.  I mean if you are going to give me Cancer, why give me one that's so curable?  Or is God still working on the assumption that we are still nomads with no more idea of biological workings than "stay the fuck away from Women when they menstruate. Because, blood? Right?

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.



romius t aka the cancer boy

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Cancer Boy is back with a Non-Cancer Blog Post

Is that possible? No, not really. 1

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

I got {real} bad news

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.

Romius T

Friday, August 15, 2014

Can someone lend me Robin Williams' belt?

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

If you're writing your memoirs at age 30 it should be about something. Some kind of momentous occasion. Dave (I share a given-name and the inability to create fiction with) Eggers wrote about the death of his mother. But my mother is still alive. Alive and kicking as they say. Not that I'd wish death upon her just for some convenient pathos.

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 am the World and it Ends Tonight.

 I am the World.  And it ends tonight. <---Read this first

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.

As I walk past the local bar I know, I see a tattered eviction notice plastered to front of it's doorway. Just like the dwindling sunlight it's all gone now.  We've traded in locals bars for "brands" and upscale snobbery.

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.

The next bar is more of a college bar.  It has some brand new outdoor patio.  I think I will sit on the benches and type my story here.  The beer is cheap and cold.  The bartender is usually pretty, but ignores me.  I used to think she had vacant eyes.  But I think the vacancy sign is reserved only for some.  For me there are no lights on and no open beds to rent.

I want to drink a lot of beer tonight. I don't want to have to order multiple times, so I order several beers at once.  The bartender frowns at my order.  I think I must have done something improper. I guess I should not order so many beers at once.  She confirms my suspicions when she asks me if I could, "just order one beer."  

I unfold my dollars carefully.  I count them out to her.  That way she will know I am not stiffing her.  She does not wait, but instead turns around to see to another order.  After pouring my beer she absentmindedly grabs my cash and stuffs it in the register.  I can't tell if she took my tip or not.  Then she sits down at the other end of the bar, far away from me near the window, and next to a pile of textbooks she is studying.  I wait to watch her take her seat and pick up her iPhone before I head over to one of the empty tables.  Each table has two benches made from scrapyard lumber and painted with one to few coats of "rustic" red paint. 

I don't really like this bar.  What the world really needs is more neighborhood bars.  Cramped rat holes with room for only six or eight people.  Low lights that you bump into on the way back from the filthy bathroom.  A place full of real drunks.  People who have stopped carrying what they look like to others and live only to drink.  I want the world to have more people like me.  Functional, but broken.  People should give up on their dreams.  They should go to work and save just enough to drink every night.  Go home afterwards and shower.  Don't talk to your spouses or children.  Just go to the bar and get drunk.  Maybe don't even to talk to anybody while you're there.  At the bar no one cares that you have problems.  Everybody at a bar has a problem.

Friday, January 17, 2014

I teach you things about Lesbians and Fatties (edited from Bathos)

I teach you things about Lesbians

I like the fact that the only people who read me are fat lesbians.  Though I say fat lesbian like there is some other kind.

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 to me

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>???

 and in your case it's not even what's on the outside

I feel like because I am good 
looking people stop caring 
who I am on the inside.
 they just want the 


You're cute.  Not the kinda hot that I'd skip wanting you to have a personality.

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.

Move along.

Sunday, September 08, 2013

Meet me naked in your bathroom, and I just might slit your throat.

"What are you doing here?"  She asked over the roar of the shower.

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

It can read your mind.

When the Government perfects mind reading it's going to be in for a big disappointment.  If you think people with kitten blogs think a lot about kittens, and not a lot about Al Qaeda, then you'd be right.

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.


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."

I see.

"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

I don't want to rape you song lyrics

I don't wanna rape you
(but at least you died in my arms)
I don't wanna rape you
(be still the beating of your heart)
Never tried to hate you
But you never gave us a start

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

My new blog

Go HERE to see the my new blog on the Surveillance State.  I will be posting there much more regularly than I post here.  At least until I give up on that too!

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Told ya so

I might be the only person in the world not surprised by revelations that the government has been snooping on you. Been telling you for years. Who's the conspiracy theorist now?

Monday, May 27, 2013

Just live blogging my life away

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.