Tuesday, June 30, 2009

I live in squalor

My house has been invaded by those bugs that live inside rotting food. I am not sure what kind of bugs they are. They look like fruit flies. They live inside bags of discarded Jack in the Box.

My last roommate found a bag in his room under a pile of dirty clothes. We had the flies in the house for 3 weeks before I convinced him to take a look around.

The decomposing meat allowed generation after generation of these things to be born.

I remember my friend tried to pass it off as science experiment. And then he offered me 20 dollars to collect the bag and toss it outside.

I told him there was not enough money in the world for me to go into his room and pick the sack up. It was loaded with larvae and rotten food. Buzzing insects.

He gagged several times on the way to throw the bag out.

I gagged just writing that sentence.

Let's hope we find the source of these flies.

My roommate thinks it must be my infected toe nail. The smell of which is much reduced now that I have started to pour Listerine mouth wash into the open wound. So I have a feeling it can't be the gangrene.

My roommate must have some dead body in his room.

The only thing that pisses me off about that is the flies and the fact that he never offered me sex with her when the body was still fresh.

Greedy bastard.


We found the source of the problem.

The roommate suggested that I use his wetvac to vacuum the rugs. He opened the WetVac and BAMMMM!!!!!
A swarm of a million fruit flies.
Then he screamed like a bitch.
Then he dropped the vac down and the lid spit open.
This released more flies.
I had to run over and grab the vacuum.
I ran it outside.
Roommate yells at me not to throw it away, "just dump the contents."
I tell roommate to fuck off.
Roommate examines contents of vacuum.
Roommate decides "throw the damn thing out!"
Still killing flies.
Roommate owes me 44 cents for throwing out my box of corn bread.
Roommate admits to using vacuum to suck up water and food.
I plan to make him pay for this.
Some how.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

The Self Help Guide to overcoming infidelity.

Step #1 in The Self Help Guide to understanding and overcoming hypothetical adultery.

First you must accept this:


How do women put up with men? Women know what they expect out of life. Men don't realize anything about life until we reach 50, and our dicks no longer work.

But that’s because the dick is a magical creature. It talks us into any number of things. Men with dicks are not totally human, but then again women don’t fall for humans, they fall for MEN.

A man and his dick can do great things.

Very few men actually want to get married. And no penis ever does. But more often than naught the penis is trapped by a female before the penis can live out its dreams. If the female trap works the wonderful life the penis envisioned for its owner is doomed.*

*The penis not the vagina is the source of all creativity.

I mention this because super sexy Ubermilf Dark would like to blame her spouse’s “penis” for hypothetical infractions of the marital code.

She writes:

“Why, if your marriage is already weathering the stresses and strains of constant travel, would someone choose to invite an old flame out to dinner while in this old flame's current city? Away from his loyal spouse? Huh? Hypothetically, why would someone do that?”

But I say hold on.

Don’t blame the penis.

The penis and I hardly ever talk. The penis has its own agenda. I can’t trust the penis either. But that is not to say that the real man underneath the penis does not value you UberMilf, it is just means that the penis is hostage to young, hot pussy:

"So, hypothetically, this spouse might be pretty fucking pissed off and miserable and full of self-doubts and feeling like an idiot for ever giving up a career and stretching out her body having children and giving up the best years of her life because she stupidly trusted you. Hypothetically."

"Because, hypothetically, this high school flame is some unattached Hollywood producer with long blond hair and a non-stretched out body."

In a sense your violated "trust" is evolutionary pay back for being young and beautiful and able to control the penis. Don’t get mad now that the penis' compass is hypothetically directed elsewhere.

There was a time when you could control the penis and wield its wonderful power. Be thankful. That is more than I will ever know and must be the reason for my use of a masturbatory fantasy life where I become “Sarah Beth” and get ass raped by pimps. But I digress.

The moral of the story is that wielding a powerful instrument like the penis is addictive and just like your husband you are caught in its trap.

Your husband is addicted to the penis because he loves the idea of slamming strange pussy. You too are addicted to the power of the penis, because you love to control the MAN behind the penis.

You are each addicted to penis power.

Stop worrying about hypothetical adultery. Allow the penis to do what it wants as long as it is hypothetical.*

*It is possible for the man to fool his penis. A rich fantasy life can fool the penis. Sometimes for 30 years. Just long enough for the erect penis to deflate and the destructive/creative properties of testosterone to extinguish.

If we do not fool the penis MEN cannot stay married. The penis wants nothing to do with marriage, kids, car pooling, and recycle trash days.

What I am saying is that the man you are married to is engaging in a bit of diversionary fantasy for his penis, and this is good news for you. You are still married to a MAN. And not just a penis.

Friday, June 26, 2009

This is me trying to write about why I write

I am not sure why I write. Some days I have to write. Things pop in my head and I have to get them down on paper. Even though we both know that getting it all down on paper won't work. That the things I write are never as good as they sound in my head. But that is just me fooling myself. Maybe they words in my head are exactly the same as they appear on paper. It's just reading them that makes them sound bad.

I have only one pair of shoes that fits. But the shoes are old and worn and have no support. When I walk on them for a while my back begins to hurt. My heels cry out because the shoes lack support and by the time I get home the pain has spread into my neck.

I am off of work today. I am thinking about going drinking. I like to think that drinking in the daytime is romantic. I think drinking in the day makes me some kind of working class hero. Drinking in the day is something that Bukowski would do.

I got off topic. I was supposed to be writing about why I write.

I write because I have a huge ego.

And the world ignores me.

At least when I blog someone notices me.

I write a blog because I want to write something important someday. Or at least something entertaining. I write because I hope one day to get good at writing and make a living by writing. All it takes is practice they say.

I write because I can't let all the hope in me die.

It's just too painful to live that way.

I don't want to become one of the haggard looking. Not like the women who visit my grocery store or the 40 year old men I see riding the bus with me. Their skin is marked by the sun. They stopped using sunscreen 25 years ago. Now they are burned. Red skinned. Their faces are lined with wrinkles. They have on dirty work clothes marked with black stains. They stare out the windows of the bus hoping for something.

But the bus just keeps going.

And I practice my writing.

Which would adorable if I were 18.

But I am not adorable. I am almost 40.

It's funny how long we can hold on to our illusions.

I am just going be some broke, working class, diary writing, asshole until I die.

Nothing ever changes. I guess I am getting in the mood to go and drink now.

It would be nice to feel good again.

I was in a good mood for a week. I did not let work get me down. I was positive. I made chit chat with the customers.

The blanket was lifted off me.

It's all chemical. My depression.

Sometimes my brain hurts. But the brain doesn't like keeping all the pain to itself. So it spreads the feeling outward so that it reaches my limbs. I struggle just to wake up from dreams.

The world is covered in a fog those days.

Most of my life gets spent in the fog. And it is easy to get lost in a fog.

But the fog is the only thing that is real.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

I just posted something new in the archives

Scroll down to find IT COULD BE WORSE.

Later today expect a new post. But right now I am off to get a haircut and maybe eat at "What a Burger." Then I am going to go to the Library. I have to turn in some books, and get some new ones. I am doing research on the Gnostic Bible.

In the mean time read my personal favorite comment about my writing:

Die. Seriously, your life is not worth it. This post talked about something totally unrelated to the title, then about 1/3 of the way in changed to the "real" post, which then rambled on about nothing before finishing inconclusively. I regret reading this post, it was a waste of my time when I could have been eating, sleeping, or reading anybody else's* posts, all of which are better than this.

*except for a few choice people.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

I See Pancake Nipple I Might Want to Rape

I have nothing to talk about other than the slam I am expecting to get from the blog review site that a reader of mine suggested I try out.

The blog review site has not written back to tell me if they are going to review my site. I think they do this on purpose just to get the writers nervous.

They say you are supposed to write better when you are nervous or inspired. I don't think being nervous is going to help me, and since I never get inspired don't count on my impeding doom to help the writing on this blog.

Instead let's pretend that I am not as nervous as a pre-operational transsexual teen right before the doctor cuts off the his penis.

I know what I am talking about because there just happens to be one who stops by the grocery store every couple of weeks with his mom.

I was running the self check out line when I noticed her. She/He was wearing a t-shirt like the one Miley Cyrus made famous a while back. The kind of shirt that shows side boob.

Imagine a 16 year old boy/girl in this shirt, but the shirt has no back. Of course I went looking for a nipple shot. And yes I got one. Only I wished I hadn't. The nipple was totally pancaked.

He was resting his hand on the weigh station scale and setting off the alarm on my hand held register control. That's when I walked over to his mom and yelled at her to get her daughter to let go of the scale.

He/She was wearing a pair of those ridiculous skinny jean pants. He had long hair that was tied back in a fancy ponytail. The kind of ponytail that would be hot on a girl.

No one from the family minded when I called him "her" so I guess the whole family is down with the sex change.

Which is good as otherwise a guy like him might be sleeping on a friends couch and it can be very dangerous to sleep on someone's couch these days.

I have a friend who is sick of her roommate. The roommate quit her job as a stripper and now she just sits at home on the couch eating, because she no longer has to worry about staying skinny. I told my friend that I wanted to have sex with Holly the ex-Stripper Roommate before she gets fat. Because fucking a hot ex stripper is cool, but fucking a fat, near homeless, unemployed, couch girl is not.

She replied by text:

I know ...you could always rape her.

I told my friend that her suggestion made me horny. I texted her:

You don't need permission to rape a sex worker!

She texted back:

Haha i also know that, I guess ur gonna have to rape her...she sleeps on the couch it should be easy.

I agreed it should be an easy rape, but I fear couch girl is a light sleeper.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

I should be worried

I may or may not be worried about the flaming destruction my blog is facing from the blog review guys over at Iwillfuckingtearyouapart. It may or may not be the reason I am in complete frozen mode with this blog.

You would think I would be taking the time (I have 4 to 5 weeks they say) to tidy things up on this blog.

I could be editing my old archives or putting out new content.

I am THINKING about doing that stuff.

It just goes against the slacker feel of this blog too much.

Oh who am I kidding? The only reason I am not fixing things is because I don't take pride in anything I do. That way I can stay lazy and feel like the only reason I am failure is because I don't try.

I am sure my failure has nothing to do the talent I posses, or how I refuse to stick to one topic on this blog, and how I post stuff before I use the edit button.

But frankly I blame YOU my readers for that.

You guys keep me lazy because you love me so much. You shower me with appreciation. And I do so little to deserve it.

I may be stuck on 13 readers, but you 13 readers are stuck on me. You never ask me to spell check, or explain my wandering narratives, and you never get pissed off at me for having better blog posts titles than blog content.

That's why I love you guys.
And why I fear getting constructive criticism.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Things could be worse

I just got through watching the movie Talk Radio.

The movie brings up some heavy questions. I could apply a lot of the those questions to blogging.

Maybe I SHOULD do some soul searching.

What am I doing? What do I stand for? What do I want?

I find that shit boring.

What I learned from watching the movie.

All the important questions I can ask about this blog have to do with my audience.

What's wrong with my audience? What is it that you want? Why the fuck do you keep coming back?

For the abuse?

I think you just enjoy watching me decay.


I keep seeing myself in the mirror. I'm getting old. My fat belly collects lint in the belly button when I forget to pick it out.

I think talking to 18 year old kids at work about my sincere love of "fit preggo" porn is laugh out loud funny. So did the 18 year olds. But what the fuck do 18 year olds know?

My goatee is uneven. My ingrown toe nail is bleeding through my sock. I have unexplained back pain. I keep finding squishy tumors in my testicles. I keep shitting green. I just put myself on Prilosec because my throat closes for no good reason. My face and lymph nodes are swollen.

I need a haircut. I am going bald. I am going gray.


Things could always be worse.


No they can't.

I feel terrible. I try to imagine a person worse off than me. I think about a guy who always wanted to be a woman. Who felt trapped in a man's body. Who hates his penis. He wants to cut off the penis and wear cute skirts and those long body shirts that get layered over short shirts. He wants to paint his nails. He wants to be taken care of. He wants to be rescued. He's so tired of making decisions for himself. He just wants someone to make the decisions for him.

So he gets the surgery. He gets his penis cut off. Now he uses the girl's restroom. He shaves his legs.

Try to imagine he does not have huge "man hands," or a massive Adam's apple. Try to imagine that he can have an orgasm with his new vagina.

Let's imagine he sits with his legs smartly crossed and has boyfriends. Maybe even fools the guys at college. They don't know that he is a Tranny. They just like his girlishness. They fuck him and he blows them. He enjoys all the cum in his mouth.

But one day he wakes up and misses his penis. I mean REALLY misses his penis. The way any man would miss his penis if it was cut off from him. I wonder what he would go through. I have no idea. Other than staring down at his empty pelvis.

Probably lots of crying. 

There are just some mistakes you just can't undo.

He would have to go on living as a woman. He would have to wear those pink breast cancer buttons in September. He would have to watch Oprah. Fuck. I have no idea what else he would have to do. I guess he would have to keep on faking it like all women do.

Because men are useless fucks. We are. We just don't give a fuck. We want your pussies. We want you to admire us. We crave your attention. We need you to build us up.

I have no idea what the fuck you get back from us in return. We give you nothing. All we are is WANT. We are like children. We are want machines. We desire everything we can see and think of.

We need to feel. To touch... everything... maybe that's why you love us. We are your little children that can speak to you, and rub your backs, and lick your toes, and open jars you cannot, and build the world for you.

You just want to live in the world of emotion and make believe.

In the world where there is just you and me and we talk all night in the bedroom/and we cuddle on blankets listening to the rain splash against the windows/and off in the distance we hear car alarms go off after lightning strikes and the car alarms remind us that we are playing hooky/that the real world is out there/but not in here with us/not today at least/we are safe.


But at least YOU still have your penis! That poor tranny boy lost his!


I wish just my penis was cut off. I wake up with a boner every morning, but what use is it?

I am castrated. 

Only you will tell me that my castration is all in my head.

A man without a car is castrated. I am a man without a car. I have only my erection. What purpose could my erection possibly serve?

A reminder!

A reminder that I never get what I want. You see The tranny has closure. I do not. My erection ensures that I will have an endless supply of "possibility" followed by failure.


No they can't.

If things "could always be worse" then how can you gauge things as they actually are?

If your "standard for comparison" is always changing it can not be a standard for comparison. A comparison without a set value is fallacious.

Things are as bad as they can possibly be. 

It's just as likely that we live in the worst of possible times as it is that we live in the best of times.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

How you doing?

A friend of mine messaged me on MySpace and asked me how I was.

I wrote this poem back...


I am doing OK
if by OK
you mean
the same as always

which we might
want to wonder
and worry

I am not OK

would I write that I am OK

maybe it is just easier
to write
"i am ok"
it can be difficult
to discuss
the hopelessness
that lies coiled at the
heart of existence.

via e-mail.

Congrats on the new baby!

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

I tried editing a post today....here are my results

first the original:

When someone stops you on the street to tell you about pregnant horse porn I think you naturally assume that they are talking about the horse being pregnant and not the woman having sex with a horse being pregnant.

But what if "that person" is actually a poster on the Internet in a creepy sex forum that you sometimes visit, (but not before carefully wiping out all traces of your visit by deleting your internet history afterwards) and not an actual person on the street? Well, then there really is no one to blame but yourself, is there?

Something has gone terribly wrong here.

If you accidentally click on the link you may very well feel tricked to find that what you are seeing is a pregnant human female copulating with a horse.

I don't think the Internet adage "it is relevant to your interests" is an appropriate response. I really don't. And I don't care who I anger about that. I mean I do know that flaming on one of these supergeek fetish porn addicts that befriends you by offering you free porn can be risky. That's why I am telling you instead of him. He would probably hack into my computer and download all kinds of illegal stuff into it and then call the cops on me.

We live in age of entitlement that sickens me.

Instead I have to tell him thank-you. "Thanks for sending me that link to the pregnant women fucking horse fetish website. Because I really wanted to know just how specific people feel they can be in this age of over the internet porn."

Personally, I think that he owes me an apology. Horses fucking pregnant chicks is not "relevant to my interests." I mean not that pregnant horses fucking gets me off either. I just like pregnant chicks. Fucking. Maybe they could be sisters from Japan wearing bright navy blue school girl outfits sucking off ponies.

I mean except for the ponies part. I don't like PONIES you FREAKS.


I guess I could have linked to the webpage, but that would make it weird for us. Wouldn't it?

Now that I have refreshed your memory let's look at the edited version that now appears on this site:

When a pregnant woman stops you on the street to tell you about pregnant horse porn I think you naturally assume that she must be talking about a couple of horses "fucking" and one of them is pregnant.

I doubt you'd think she was
talking about her desire to have sex with a horse while being pregnant.

But if a sicko like that stopped you in the street I bet you could impress on them the knowledge of their social faux pas with a simple raise of your eyebrows.

But what if "that person on the street" was actually an anonymous poster on the Internet?

How would you scold that person for their inappropriate behavior?

A flame war?

And who could you hold responsible when all you have to blame is the lawless community of anonymous internet geeks who refuse to learn even the basics of human interaction.

Something has gone terribly wrong here.

I want to remind you to be careful when opening the responses you get from the fetish requests you make on the internet, because after you click on the link that the creepy internet nerd sent, you may never be turned on by pregnant chicks again. And that would be terrible thing!

It is relevant to your interests.

I know the anonymous internet poster just wanted to help a fellow fetishist out. But posters should take more care when answering requests they get in cyberspace.

And if you are an internet responder and you fuck up you ... just admit it. Apologize. Don't flame me back with the old Internet adage "it is relevant to your interests."

That's just not the appropriate response to a situation that requires you to apologize.

You guys have no idea how to handle social situations.

I know all you anonymous posters on 4chan hate rules. And I know that flaming back one of those super geek fetish porn addicts who befriends you by offering you free porn can be risky. That's why I am telling the community at large how to behave and not him.

He would probably just hack into my computer and download all kinds of illegal stuff into it and then call the cops on me.

We live in age of entitlement that sickens me.

Instead I had to tell him thank-you:

"Thanks for sending me that link to the pregnant women fucking horse fetish website. Because I really wanted to know just how specific people feel they can be in this age of over the Internet porn."

That guy still owes me an apology. Horses fucking pregnant chicks is not "relevant to my interests." I mean... not that horses fucking gets me off either.

I like to watch pregnant chicks fucking. Maybe they could be sisters from Japan wearing bright navy blue school girl outfits sucking off horses.

I mean except for the horses part. I like PONIES not HORSES you FREAKS!


I guess I could have linked to the webpage, but that would make it weird for us.

Wouldn't it?

Friday, June 05, 2009

I think I am going to vomit

I think I am going to vomit on you. But not yet. Which is good news for you. But maybe not. Since I can't really vomit on you because we don't really know each other. All we have is the symbiotic synthetic cyber relationship where I write things for you to consume, and you gurgle them all down so as to stave off the suburban boredom you are going through.

I hope my post does this for you, because I can't hear another story about some disaffected middle aged woman who hated her life so much that she went to the store to buy six quarts of ice cream and an Oprah magazine so she could make it through another day of feeling useless to her husband and used up by her demanding, unappreciative children.

It makes me want to go out and hire some guy on Craigslist to rape you back into reality which is just what some guy did if you believe the reports on TV.

I don't believe things I see on TV which is why I assume the whole thing was made up.

High Crimes and Misdemeanors

Instead I will just tell you about the guy I met last night who found some marijuana on the street as he was walking to the store. I had no idea pot heads were so observant. But I guess they are if they don't get their fix. They start to see pot everywhere and every once and a while they turn out to be right.

He did not find a lot of pot. Just enough for a bowl. But I can tell you that this pot finding friend of mine can find better pot on the sidewalk of his neighborhood than he can score from his connections or buy from his drug dealer.

Last night I watched a guy get high from found pot and I drank an 18 pack of beer. Two hours after all my friends went to bed I sat outside their apartment listening to my mp3 player and finishing off the 18 pack of beer I bought myself that no one drank from because I guess they are just too good for Keystone Light.

I woke up hurting at 7:13 in the morning which was just enough time for me to run down to the curb and catch the 7:18 bus. I jumped on the bus even though I knew I did not have a bus card much less the exact fare that the sign located on the ticket booth said was required.

I must have looked pathetic or stupid (sometimes it pays to be white) because I went through all the motions of asking if the machine took debit or credit cards. My driver must have assumed I had never been on a bus before. I am sure he thought I was probably making a run from the skinny girl that drove me to the bad side of town and took advantage of me by getting me to buy beer for her and her friend, because he let me board for free.

Maybe the driver hoped that he had turned a suburban white boy into a proponent of public transportation . But I think he just figured that I would pay for an all day bus ticket when I boarded the connection to my next bus. He was almost right, but instead of buying an all day pass I bought a one way ticket fare that cost me only a $1.25. That meant I saved 50%. Now I see why public transit never makes money.

The girl that gave me a ride to the bad side of town where I booze it up with my underage friends is some kind of pill freak. She gets high at work all the time and the manager is always having her tested for drugs which somehow she manages to pass because I guess whatever pills she takes can't be tested by the oral drug tester we have at work.

I smell like booze. I called in sick at 8:11 am. I was sick. Not throw uppy sick. Just pounding headache with liver pain. The liver pain was not too bad though. I drank a two liter of cola and felt better. Around 2 pm work called to tell me that they found my stolen library book.

That put me in good mood.

Thursday, June 04, 2009

I am constipated with Life

"You're getting off work soon."

She was a Mexican. She was in her mid 30's and married which meant to me that I had a pretty good chance.

She did not look up from counting my drawer when she talked to me.

"Go home and watch TV. Blog and space out. " She told me.

"I plan to." I replied. "It's all I do anyway."

"I know." She laughed.

So I went home and blogged and spaced out and watched TV on the computer. I did those things because they were the only things I ever did. I guess I could have done something else, but I never thought about doing anything other than "what I always did" until it was too late.

I would look over at the alarm clock perched on my computer monitor and realize it was 6 in the morning. 6 am. Too late to do anything now. Then I would remember that I would have to be at work in a few hours. I would lie down on my bed and try to masturbate. 40 or 50 minutes later, my penis, dry and chaffed would cough out an orgasm like a sick child coughs out phlegm from the flu.

I would try to go to sleep then. Usually it was hot in my room and the noise from the ceiling fan would keep me awake. The ceiling fan had light fixtures that did not work because the light bulbs had corroded into them. The light bulbs would clang around hitting the side of the fixtures because the fan wobbled at high speeds. I needed to run the fan at high speeds because my room faced the sun and always kept a residual heat about itself. I was too poor to run the air conditioning anyway. Not too cheap mind you, just too poor. I could afford the internet or air conditioning, and I chose the internet. I never regretted that decision.

Days pass. Weeks go by. Somehow those weeks turn into years. The only way I marked time was by watching the growth of hair that sprouted up in the most unnecessary of places on my body. Whenever I got bored of plucking all my unwanted hair I would turn my critical attention to my weight or my disappearing hair line.

I lay under that ceiling fan all those nights watching the fan wobble, waiting for it to fall off of its hinges.

Ceiling fans make me think of death. All because I watched the movie Angel Heart as a kid. The movie made a lasting impression on me, and I always told myself that if I ever got to make a movie I would include cinematically impressive shots of ceiling fans as an homage to the movie.

One day out of boredom I stood up on the bed and adjusted the light bulbs in hopes that I could get the jingling to stop. I played around a few times with different positions, but nothing worked. I would get frustrated then and lay back down on the bed. I kept getting aroused by the noise though, so I would jump up and start to have a go at the ceiling fan again, fancying myself some kind of fix-it man.

Suddenly there was silence. Dead silence. The noise from the fan had stopped.

"Are you kidding me?' I asked myself.

"That's it?" My nemesis was a paper tiger. I performed a simple trick and the noise stopped.

"All those freaking years." I mumbled to myself. "I suffered through those bothersome clicks and clanks." But now I had gotten the noise to stop.

Suddenly I felt like a new man. I would sleep now. I would sleep better than I had slept in years. I would wake up each morning refreshed. I could attack the day now with all my new found energy.

I am not sure what happened to that promise.

Maybe the clanks of the corroded light bulbs hid the sounds of roommate's television, or his skulking back and forth to the refrigerator.

Whatever it was it seems it made no difference. No matter the improvement my situation comes under. No matter the effort I make. No matter how objectively the improvement could be presented before me it still does me no good.

I sleep no better than before fan noise stopped. Now I just seem to notice my backache instead of the annoying sounds emanating from above me. I concentrate on the uncomfortable collision that is my back and the cheap mattress beneath me. I am itchy and I wipe blood from my ingrown toenail onto the sheet which sits scrunched in a ball at the foot of the bed.

I still wake up with a pounding head full of dread. I hope tomorrow will be different. But I know it won't. I marshal all my physic energy. I try to convince myself to get up and go to work if for no other reason than to escape my lousy bed.

I hate waking up. I hate waking up more than anything. I do mental calculations to find the latest possible time for getting up. I'm not sure why. I wished I didn't. I would like to take my hatred out on the world, and thereby become a man of conscience. Or tell the world I am tired of it and check out. Become a bum. But I don't.

I guess I have no will power. I am stuck again on that lousy metaphor of being an amoeba. Alive, but with no will. Movements that seem directed, but are devoid of purpose.

I don't wish to sprout nihilism. I don't look all that deeply into the abyss. I am not overrun with the nausea of dread.

I am just constipated with life.

Monday, June 01, 2009

This was the e-mail I was going to send to Douglas Coupland

I want to be a stalker.

I am not hungry yet, so I am not going to wake up and get out of bed. Getting up and going out to eat was my only plan for today. But since I am not hungry I can't decide what I want.

I was thinking about going somewhere where they make subs. I would, but I have been eating sandwiches all week.

I get home from work and slap together turkey and ham and throw on some bell pepper and wilted salad mix for lettuce. I drown the bread roll in mustard and scarf down on Frito's. I eat late at night after getting off work. I eat so much that I am not hungry even 12 hours later.

The only good thing about leaving the house to eat would be the chance to real life stalk some one.

She is young, hip, and does drugs. She is still so young and hip that listing her drinking accomplishments from the previous night can sound rebellious.

I just took a shower. I am not hip, cool or beautiful.But I could still go down to her work and talk to her. But if I did I would talk to her in the third person like she was not there. I would stare off at the corner of her face instead of looking her in the eye. That way I could be a story for her to talk about. I would exist only as someone she could make fun of to her friends.

It would be a relief not to be seen as a person.

I would just be some old creeper. A stalker that saw her at work and tried hitting on her. A loser with no money. The kind of guy who spends his last 10 dollars to "treat" himself to lunch on his day off. The kind of loser who grabbed his bus fare from his change jar. A loser who winces in pain when he walks in the shop from his ingrown toe because he can't afford to see the doctor so the doctor can tell him, "he's going to die soon."

Isn’t it time to die yet? It should be. I wouldn't mind. My only concern is that I bought a Mach 3 razor and none of the replacement cartridges that I own fit the new razor, so now I have to go back to work without my receipt and try to convince them that I need a different razor and that I am not stealing.

Speaking of dying.

I am just going to wait. Wait for my big toe to fall off. Maybe when I get it amputated I could start to date some of the weird fetish girls who dig men with amputations. I could join a support group to meet them. I could apply to have my psychologist recommend that surgery is the only option. That since I was a child I never felt "whole" with my big toe attached to me. I need to have the damn thing cut off. What I need are the stares of people as I walk down the grocery aisle in flip flops "sans" big toe. At least then I will have an identity.

Maybe it won't be the identity I wanted. But all I ever wanted to be is uppercase "Douche Bag" a self aware bro' that quotes the history of Rome.

I am not that guy. Though I am overly self aware. I have to be. I am slowing disappearing. I am going into the void where fat people live. People avoid eye contact with fat people because they think fat people are so ashamed of themselves that they'd prefer it if people pretended they did not exist. Only not existing is the one thing fat people and losers are afraid of.

Poor me. Old, fat, and broke. I am irrelevant. People stumble over me on the bus. They don't see me till it's too late. Then they half apologize. They throw a few words in my direction like an after thought. Like I was a ghost or shadow of a memory they instantly forgot as they embarked on the bus and looked for a place to sit.

The couple can't remember tripping over me. They only think of themselves. They lace their arms around one another and then the boy lets his fingers wander around her leg. He carelessly traces his fingers on my knee. It never registers to him that he is feeling me up. I can't move much. I can only squirm a little. I try to get out of the way and let the lovers go at each other. But I am blocked in the seat with them.

I would like to be someone different. But I don't enjoy Halloween. I can never get over the fact that it's all made up.

I only get to be what I am. An amorphous mass. A bag of gelatin. A giant puss bag filled with smelly oil. My mode of locomotion is like that of an amoeba. Instinctual. I wander pointlessly, extending my Amoeba arms outward.

I am just like the character of Roger in the Douglas Coupland book The Gum Thief.

Only I don't have a novel in me like the main character does. And I never had a career to goof up. I don't have a redemptive bone in my body. But at least I won't drink myself into oblivion like Roger. I have a liver problem, remember?

In the novel Douglas talks about change and how nobody ever really changes. I think that is true. I am never going to change. All I am going to do is think about changing, because for some reason thinking is enough "doing" for me.

In the novel one of the characters sends an e-mail. The e-mail address is real. I sent an e-mail to the address and my e-mail did not come back as "unknown" or whatever e-mails do when you send them to a fake addresses. So I assume the address is real. I wrote a message that I wasn't going to write anything.

I did not write anything because I was at work. My break was over so I stopped reading the novel and started writing a text e-mail. I wanted to send something out fast before my walk from the break room to the sales floor of the grocery store. It was a moment right of one of Coupland's own novels. A guy at a McJob who yearns for something "more" worries that his break time is being monitored and rushes to send a few words to his idol via an e-mail address from a novel just to see if the idol would get the e-mail and respond back.

Would it have helped if I had sent this blog post to Douglas? Maybe. Then maybe we could have become friends after I shared with him how I was one of the first 100 hundred people to sign up and follow his twitter.

Nah, I doubt it.