The spirit is fading

Write what you know.

If I were to do that then all my notebooks would be filled with descriptions of my swollen anal cavity.

The blood slowly dripping.  My ass cheeks rubbed raw by the infected fecal matter.  The taste of fresh boogers collected from my thumb nail.

If I wasn't writing lurid descriptions of my body then I would be filling my notebooks full of the unsolicited e-mails I send to women on dating sites.

The women are single mothers who like to party.  Most of them have not had the good sense to abandon their children to the state and only keep them from some distorted sense of morality.

By clutching on to their children the mothers only add insult to injury. Only the mothers eventual arrest for solicitation offers these children any hope for breaking free from such suffocating maternal instincts.

Dear Ms. So and So:

I like everything about you.  I like the way you look.  I like your sense of style.  I like the way you like to party.

We should get together and finish off a bottle of tequila.  Not that I really like tequila.  I find that I am more of a beer person.  But perhaps if you made margaritas we could easily finish the bottle between us.  Either that or you could swill straight from the bottle and I could pound away at 5.7% beer so that you would not misjudge my manhood.

p.s.

I do not have a crib, so if you child needs something to sleep in maybe he could stay at a neighbors.

I look forward to hearing from you.

So far I must confess that my e-mail has not garnered me a date from any of my matches.  Even the ones who blog about suicide.

Perhaps that is because I refuse to send the e-mail to any undesirables.  I detest ugly women.  Which I know to be ironic, but what can I say.  I am a self-hating ugly.

I would rather spend my life alone that surrounded by the squishy, hairy mammoth arms of a desperate ugly woman whose fingers yearn to caress my man boobs.

I do not need to be one of those couples with lowered expectations that have unconsciously inverted their standards from the universal to the particular.

Not that I don't understand  a life about lowered expectations.  My whole life is testament to lowered expectations.  Lowered expectations are why I do not leave my living room, or change my undershorts.

I can only hope the suicidal party mom wants to lower her expectations and date a man with half of her aesthetic appeal.

A match can be made between a good looking melancholic, overly stressed by the dependence of her hatchlings, with a sensitive man of words, but limited physical attributes.

I could heat up the bottle in the microwave for her.  And she could heat up things in the bedroom for me.

But imagine yourself with a person with whom you have no chemistry.  The square backed fat girl.  An ethnic girl of most any type.  Save the petite beauties offered up from the Orient.  I react poorly whenever I see a match of two robustly ugly people in love.  I am simply unable to keep eye contact  when I see the two unattractives get all gooey with each other.

They should at least have the dignity to realize that what they are doing is against all of nature.  That no one can find them pleasing to touch or to be around.

Let us uglies find something within us to trade to the attractive in order that we might spread our seed and be matched.  Or if not, let us be content to admit plainly that what we have is not so great.  And thereby avoid the unpleasant display of affection in public.