Absence makes the heart grow dickish

A Recap of my Thanksgiving

I spent Thanksgiving alone.  I did not eat turkey.  I drank 15 beers.

Then I decided to go to a bar around 9:45.  Got told it was closing at 10.  There was one woman left. She went home with a man 20 years older than me. 

The next day I pooped blood.

So you know that guy that killed his girlfriend by shooting her a few times, the guy that played for the Kansas City Chiefs?  I think I know why that guy shot her.

It's basically like this:  Once you have sex with a really hot chick, 

YOU
WIN.

Nothing really left in life.  You've accomplished everything you ever needed to do.  So shoot her, kill yourself.  Tell your friends how helpful they were in getting you to the point that you could fuck hot chicks.

Let the baby live, because evolution is STRONG.

Miss me? 

A letter to the giant titted women of the world.

There is this chick with giant fucking tits that I want to fuck.  Not that you'd know she has giant tits, because she is always wearing shirts that hide those giant tits from me.  Chicks with giant tits are always doing that, covering up their tits.  I guess they have like  some "I've got giant tits!" complex about it.

So what.  So you've got big giant tits.  It's okay.  God blessed you with something wonderful.  A couple of fun bags for the whole world to see.  Don't you understand?  Don't you understand how much pleasure and fun you have the potential to give to the world? Holding back on giving that kind of pleasure to the world is a form of evil.  Maybe not Hitler fucking evil, but evil nonetheless.

I feel like I need to mention that I just lied to you a few seconds ago. When I stated that there was one girl with giant tits that I wanted to fuck.  It's not true.  Actually there are a lot of girls with giant tits that I want to fuck.  A lot.  Almost all of them.  Some of them are even ugly.

I e-mailed one of the ugly girls.  I got drunk one night after celebrating at a friends birthday party.  I got wicked drunk.  Drank for hours.  But that wasn't enough for me.  Hardly ever is these days.  So after the party I drove over to the 24 hour liquor store and picked out a five dollar pipe and bought a 2 thimble sized canisters of spice, the synthetic weed drug.

I took the 2 canisters home and decided to try the strawberry version of spice.  I inhaled a bit and got almost immediately high.  So I took a hold of my lighter and puffed a few more times.  I got even higher.  A weird spaced out high that is a lot like mushrooms and weed.  But also feels a lot like crack or bath salts.

Of course every time I get that high I watch porn.  Not regular porn.  Where guys fuck girls or what not.  But jerk off encouragement porn.  The kind of porn where girls talk to you, tell you how you should jerk off.  How hot it makes them watching you jerk it to them. That kind of stuff.

On Spice that jerk off encouragement porn will fuck you up.  You won't be able to distinguish the voices you hear on the video from reality.  It will FEEL like they actually are there telling you to stroke your cock and how great your dick is, or in my case they tell me how inadequate I am.  But that's that the kind of porn that I like.

So I jerk off to the porn girls telling me to jerk off for a couple of hours.  I keep getting really close to orgasm, but I hold off.  There is a great sense of euphoria.  I feel like I'm on speed.  I feel like I am on E.  Weird shit.

Suddenly, for some reason I think about getting laid for real.  I look down at my phone and decide to look through some of the dating applications that I have installed.

I click through this one ghetto app that is written in java script running on HTML5.  It's neon pink and super slow.  But I find some fat, ugly chick has starred me, which means she wants to fuck me.

Normally there is no way I would let this chick fuck me.  But today I am so fucking horny that I don't care.  I decide I am going to get drunk when I meet her. After I get her to like me I am going to smoke some spice and fuck her.

On spice I will be crazy.  I will make her do shit that will humiliate her, or scare the shit out of her.  Maybe scare the shit out of me.  Real crazy shit like punching myself in the balls.  Knife play.  Chocking bitches out.  Having them choke me out.  This bitch is going to be sorry she ever laid eyes on me.  Either that or she is going to be so fucking happy that a man finally understands her that she will be willing to do whatever it takes to keep me.

I'm suddenly down for that. For being with a bitch that I don't want to be with in public.  For taking her to swinger clubs.  To make her suck another man's in front of me.  All of which probably sounds crazy to you.  But it's normal to me and a few other people.

I wonder if those people who think of that shit as normal are as crazed as I am when I get high on Spice.  Do their brains tingle?  Do they hear voices?  Do they get anxiety?  What's if feel like to be that crazy normally?

That friend who had the birthday had a friend who was down for this kind of shit.  She told me how her ex boyfriend was a freak.  She said that no matter what kind of shit I had done, this guy was way freakier.  She told me how he liked to make her suck other men's cocks.  How he wanted her to call him "Amber" and he'd wear female panties.

I never told her how I took spice and jerked off.  How once after smoking spice I started smelling shoes.  How the foul smell turned me on all of sudden.  How I wanted to lick the inside of the shoes. Real freaky shit like that.  How I thought the idea of her calling me Sarah was great.  How I would love the opportunity to watch her fuck other men as I jerked off.   Maybe even while smoking spice.  That would probably send me to overdrive.  I'm not sure I could handle that.

But this girl is an ex stripper.  Probably not that interested in me.  Though she hugged me before she left.  Hugged me from behind.  A long hard hug like you would give to a good friend that you missed, or maybe your boyfriend.  She pressed her tiny breasts into me.  I loved every second of it.  I hope she wants to come out to Taco Tuesday and get drunk with me next Tuesday.

I think I am going to invite her.  Or maybe that fat fuck that starred me on the phone dating site.  Either way, I should get with a real chick soon.  If I don't get laid I may go crazy.  I might start fucking around on spice all day long, buy a gun or something.  I have a few hundred dollars stacked away.  As long as my car keeps running.  As long as it starts.  I won't have to spend anymore money there.  IF SO I will have money for spice, for playing pool with ex strippers, and for fucking ugly women.

Strange.  I feel like I have something to live for after all.  Thanks Big Tits. Thanks Ugly Tits.  I love you all.  

The good, bad, and the ugly

Like most people I have my good and bad days. More often bad than good, but that's probably because of my temperament, or my disposition,  depression, bi-polarism, the fluctuating mania, anddrug use along with the general wear and tear that 50 years of life can put on a man. After a while it adds up on you, and sometimes I let it get me down. Not that my life is truly all that "bad." It's not like I'm a refuge in Ukraine.

So you see things really aren't that bad. I guess they are just bad in the 'modern sense'.   

But I can't help what year I was born in.  I can't help the fact that I ain't got to invade Normandy and face real Nazis shooting at me with guns who need a real ass-kicking.  Instead I get khaki clad and Tiki torch carrying mother fuckers who just shopped at Target©, or a step- dad being a jerk to me on Thanksgiving about Obama's birth certificate and the Republican party slowly destroying our democracy. 

I can't help the fact that the science people already solved most of the problems that people have faced in the past, but the technocrats and capitalist elites won't let them do anything about it.

I can't help that the wealth this country produced is going to be left to a bunch entitled kids who think this world was created by magic. They like to complain about the drudgery of work and low pay, but you'd never see them organize a Union. 

So like you I focus on myself.  Maybe to the detriment of our species, or maybe just to the detriment of the rest of the pre-homeless population.  But it is what it is.  And their ain't no sense in complaining to me about what I really should be doing with my life. 

Frankly, I ain't gonna listen to you.  If I was, I surely would have listened by now. Instead I am just spend my time thinking a lot about Bath Salts.  About how maybe they ain't as bad for ya as people tell you they are.

Also, I Got an app on my phone where I listen to all these podcasts and news reports.  They go on for hours and keep me informed about stuff I really need to know about.  Like the virus, reports on Feminism, red pill conspiracies and such.

But I'm always doing a lot of stuff like that. Drinking, gambling.  Anything to keep my mind occupied and growing.  I'm learning new stuff constantly.  I am on the Internet and YouTube everyday.   I check out sites that inform me about all kinds of things.  Though I won't bother believing anything that I can't find on Reddit.com or in some antiquated secondary literature on social theory. 

That's because I'm done reading. Maybe if I could get my leg to stop shaking, I'd sit down and read the old fashioned way.  One book, one idea at a time.  No hyper threads linking me to conspiracy theories.  No engaging in the frenetic masturbation of the schizoid. 

But like I said, that shit's old fashioned. Kindle, internet, twitter, TikTok, I get my information the way the new generation does.  My WHOLE brain is connected via the Internet! Faster.  I see connections everywhere.

Connections are not like Karma though. Karma's a bunch of horse shit.  I see real solid connections based on informed guestimations. Old people don't get it.  But I'm not like most old people.  Shit, put a hat on me and I could pass for 27.  Give me some E.  My face goes all soft.  I look early teens.  My facial transformations scare the Bejesus out of the teenagers I rave with.

They started calling me RAVE. Like in all capital letters.  Pretty cool nickname if I say so myself.  And you can't give yourself nicknames, otherwise we'd all call ourselves Max.

Sobriquet.  That's a fancy name for nickname.  Bet you didn't think I new that.  Well, I watch TV shows like NEWSROOM so you know that I am practically a pseudo-intellectual.  I watched it on the YOUTUBE.  Sometimes HBO airs previews of their TV shows on YOUTUBE for free.  Bet you didn't know that!  But I did. That's because I am two steps ahead of you! You old fucking dinosaur!!!  Hahaha rarrr

But I love that about you. How you're always behind. I love that I get to teach you stuff.  In fact I love you and part of me is secretly thinking about fucking you right now,,,ya...RIGHT NOW.

Don't get soft or wet just yet.  I'm probably not going to make my move anytime soon.  But it could happen.  If you get lucky.  Just think about it.  Think about me having my way with you.

WAIT A MINUTE

I think we got off track.  I am trying to explain today's universe to you.  Then we got all crazy.  HAHAH  Sorry, man.  But don't fret.  We got plenty of time.  So long as the circulation goes back to my feet. So long as the hair grows back on my legs.  So long as I stop drinking soda. Then we could have a few good years.  I think I got ten maybe 12 years left in me before I kick the bucket.  Before my kidneys shut down.  Before my job gets canned.  Before the robots take over. Before the Amazon has everybody doing slave labor.

I'm glad I'll be dead before all that. When America is no longer #1.  When all we can do is get out kicks from watching hand ball or water polo tournaments.

"OH YEAH!!! WELL OUR WATER POLO TEAM FINISHED IN 17TH PLACE IN THE WORLD CUP FINAL, SO TAKE THAT URGUAY!"

Naah.  That shit is for you younger generations, instead me an your Mom is just gonna play finger-pony in my ass while this fucking bath salt mania keeps me unnaturally high.

You Gen Z's can handle sucking.  You can handle coming in second.  My generation, well...we didn't handle that shit too well.  That's why we slack. I mean sure we wrote Heather's and Clerk's. Two damn good movies.  But after that, it was like eating PEZ candy, after the nostalgia runs out you realize you've just been eating shit candy and go hunting for something like a Magnum Caramel Ice Cream Bar.  Wayyyyy too fucking extravagant, but fuck it as the food stamps are paying for that shit.   And fuck the looks the guy driving the Mercedes gives you when you go to pay and have to count out your rolled coins, the three gift cards with the store credit you got for returning that spoiled meat you forgot you left on the counter to pay for your shit.

Fuck that dude.  Find his car later, and let the air out of it.  You'd have stabbed that tire a few years ago, but have you seen the mountains of tires located on urban centers that get set on fire each summer? Sending mad caps of black smoke into the air.  That shits for real, y'all.

Sorry for making this so long, I was going to keep this shit tight.

You know real short and all, but then I had today's poop watch and it was clay colored, which is a heck of a lot better than yesterday's green poop, you know what I am saying?  So things were on a spiral up.  My digestive track was getting better, so I thought I'd bring the energy. That is until about two minutes ago when I let loose with some juicy, green, almost chunky diarrhea.  Shit burned my ass chaps.  

So now I am thinking... that shit mostly don't change, if you know what I mean.

Oversharing is what blogs are for

I've been oversharing at work.  I talk to my customers about my life in the minutia that bloggers do, like the people at work really give a crap.  Example.  I tell my customers that, "I just bought a used car."

"It's a 1990 Volvo 760 turbo." I say.  "I bought it for only $1300."

The Volvo 760 has that amazing turbo whine.  I just love the sound of it! 

"Oh, how nice for you."  They reply.

Then I tell them how I took the car around several repair shops to get an oil change.

"It turns out that you can't take a Volvo to Walmart for an oil change.  They don't stock the necessary parts to do an oil change.  I had to go to Midas.  Midas charges $39.99 for an oil change."

And sometimes my  customers will agree with me that the price seems "a bit high."  But that just encourages me to tell them that the mechanic I took it for the oil change found an oil leak.

"Might be something, might be nothing.  But I am going to have the undercarriage power washed and the shop is going to add some dye to the engine to determine where the leak is coming from."

"If the leak isn't important they can just add a valve cover or something and the cost will be a few hundred dollars and everything should be okay.  But of course if the leak is from someplace important it could cost quite a bit more money and the engine or the turbo may be in danger or already ruined."

If that IS the case, then I am fucked.  A new turbo could easily run a 2,000 bucks.  A new engine just as much.  I don't have nearly enough money to fix those things if they go wrong.

I go on like that all day.  Same story to hundreds of customers.   I also engage my fellow workmates in my oversharing.  I talk and talk.

Afterwards I  feel like shit, like a druggie after getting high, huffing paint and then waking up in a puddle of my own piss and swearing to myself, "Never again!"

But the next customer comes and I talk about how the car has air conditioning.  And how I just bought new seat covers, and how I am thinking about getting a new stereo so I can play my phone or an mp3 player while I drive.

Not that I have driven anywhere since I have gotten the car.  That's the question I have gotten the most.  "Gone anyplace cool since you got the car.  "Nope."  I answer.  "Just the MVD, Dairy Queen, and work."

So now I have to overshare with you.  Aren't you lucky?

Summer time fun

It was hot outside today, somebody turn off the toaster oven, because it's baking me at a hundred and ten.

Took the bus to some run down apartment house to buy a car.* Before I could do that though I had to poop in a girl's bathroom at Shlotsky's Sandwich Shoppe.  I waited for ten minutes outside the men's only stall to no avail.  Dude was simply not budging.  Right as I get that loose shit out of me some girl comes barging in.  I screamed out "someone's in here!"

I gave the girl a shock I bet!  And she was a total cutie.  I bet she regretted the day she walked in after me...

ProTip:  If it takes you twenty minutes to poop, you don't have to poop!  If you have to shit diarrhea in the girl's bathroom you have a MEDICAL CONDITION.

So I finally get to the apartment and the damn bitch forgot to tell me that the car didn't have a battery.  So there was no way for me to start the car, check it out, or even take it on a test drive.

Did I mention that I took the bus to see her?  Well, I told her.  You would think she might have mentioned the battery situation.  It's not like I was going to go back on the bus, then look for an auto parts store and ride back on the bus to maybe fix her car for her.

The world is senseless.

The world is fucking with me.  Still.  After all these years.  Like the same stupid joke god never gets tired of hearing.  Why?  Why?  Why you no get tired of same joke, God?

On the ride home

I got to talking to a fellow bus rider about my situation.  The rider offered to give me their number, "so we could hang out sometime."

Pretty sure that dude was gay.

I downloaded a few books from the library.  One of them is After Shock by Robert Reich.  Talks about how the 1% is fucking us over.  The other book is A First Rate Madness by Nassir Ghaemi which talks about how crazy people are the best leaders.  It gives weight to ideas like how depressive's see the world, "study after study has shown that those suffering depression are better than "normal" people at assessing current threats and predicting future outcomes."

So they seem like really good books.  I thought I would share with you guys how things are going since it has been too long since I have written.  I might start writing a little more often.  So stay tuned.

*How the fuck can I afford a car you ask?  It turns out I have a 401k from the old Self Help Center job.  It was just sitting there earning me interest and shit.  So I took it out.  Got a couple of g's yo!  So I am in the market for a crappy used car that will cost me too damn much of my beer drinking money, will probably break down on me in the first few weeks, and leave me crying to myself the next morning after huffing on lubrication.

Straight Talk

As far as he was concerned he could walk into a grocery store and walk past a good looking chick, and she could be like, "Hey, man.  You're like a loser.  You're like a loser scumbag, scumball dude!"

And he'd be like, "Ya! Whatever, man.  I don't give a shit!"

And then he'd just go about his business. Slowly, moodily, because his back was giving him trouble, he'd meander through the shelves looking for specialty food items like freshly ground sea salt.  Because he had a secret.  And that's all a man really needs, is something special, something to keep to himself.

He didn't have the looks like the beautiful girls that dotted the checkout lines.  But who cared?  Who really cares about the straight man dreams of lifeless automatons buying frozen yogurt in sweaty black yoga pants and ponytails and freshly painted lipstick.

He was an old age new age man.  He was a Walter Benjamin, challenging today's ready acceptance of the ironic and tired.  He was FUCKING EARNEST AS SHIT.  He may have walked with no moral authority, and looked away when you talked to him, but he had the maddening crazy glare of a mongoloid who knew something.

Because, HE WAS ON TO SOMETHING.

You couldn't take that away.  No matter what.

Are most people bad?

 I think so, but I don't know.

I think I am, and I KNOW you are.

You dig into my pockets, and you take the change that isn't yours.

You do nothing to end world poverty.

So we can't decry the other. (We are him/her.)

 We can't avoid our own duplicity.

(You see!!!???)

Except by watching reality television...except by seeing Jesus in every snowflake, in every thrust of the Nigerian plunderer, (condomless, exploding his seed into your virgin infants crawl space, but curing his AIDS.)

BUT

If we are all bad, then so what?

Who am I to care/ I don't.

We DONT:

So hence no Morality?

PARATAXIS

which is the case when you write shit and no one understands it
which is the case that all you motherfuckers that come here don't get
that I am leaving the shit out that you should know
but that most of you don't

dont fuckin' tell me I am wrong in saying this:

"The most obstinate thing I can see is a fat man in gym clothes."

Don't tell me I am fuckin wrong about that.

Look the fucking word up.

You people are getting me so fucking angry here.

I avoid writing.  

Why?/because I suck.  Also, because you won't get anything, even if I didn't suck.

I'm not here to write. 

 Only one crazed reader understands that.  He is PRAISING himself now, but he is slightly correct.

I will write almost every day now.  I will podcast again.  The words must leak out.  We can not worry what the random person who reads only one post will think.  Surely, you will misunderstand things.  This is necessary.

Marx said something to the point in his introduction to Capital.   About never being properly understood.  Let us make no certain understatement.  The method of the Dialectic is not a method of scientific understanding.

I will make no appeal to it whatsoever.

I used to do this without trying

Things could be worse: RETRO from the 2000's

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.

SO Maybe I SHOULD do some soul searching....

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

Nah, 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 youwant? Why the fuck do you keep coming back?

For the abuse?

I think you just enjoy watching me decay.

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.

YOU SAY 

Things could always be worse.

I SAY

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 under shorter 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.

YOU SAY

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

I SAY

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.

BUT THINGS COULD BE WORSE

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.

I am constipated with Life

I am constipated with Life

"You're getting off work soon."

She was a Mexican and in her mid 30's.  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 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, but it never happened.

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

Ecstasy is alright with me

Damn, that fucking smells.

Of course it does, you can't go jamming your finger in your butt for an hour and not expect it to smell can you?


I guess not.  He thought.  Then he typed:

Ecstasy is the best thing in the world.  The best thing you have never tried.  The best thing THERE is to try.  But you straights won't ever know how great it is, because you are too scared and chickenshit to try it.

It doesn't matter that ecstasy will leave your kidneys bad.  It doesn't matter that your vision goes blurry.  It won't matter that you won't be able to concentrate anymore.

Who the  fuck thought you were going to get past Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind and into his Critique of the Right anyways?  Politics is smallitics nowadays.  Anyway we've got Rachael Madow to instruct us in that game now.  Who needs 19th century white men?  


I don't! Fuck man, it's the friggin' 21st century.  I trust only non bald lesbians.  Not fancy androgynous computer assisted voices.  And if a non-bald lesbo wants to insist that white men shouldn't go around armed and ready to kill whenever the neighborhood watch tells 'em it's okay, then shit that's the end of history man.  Fukishama style, only with less atomic energy and more misplaced acquiescence to the status quo of capitalist relations.


There is no struggle, but the class struggle.

Beer.  I fucking love it.  I am going to do this thing where all I drink is beer, from now on.  Going to kick that soda habit.  Fucking soda is makin' me fat.  The fatter I git, the less sleazy twenty one year olds want to sleep with me.  Like all they want is to cash their chips in and get married.  Like sleeping with some old fat man will reduce their trade in value. 


One thing you young ladies need to understand is that as soon as you step foot off the lot you lose half your value.  15 and virgin?  I'd pay 16 dollars and two bottles of Hard Mike's Lemmonade to rape your ass.  


But in your twenties?  A beer drinking hussy like you, probably on birth control, probably not listening to Daddy Rush.  Probably banging dudes in your dorm room left and right.  Shit man, might as well bang me.  Fuck, some chicks like to slum it like that.  Totally get's em off that I sweat climbing up stairs.  Totally makes em wet.  Daddy issues I guess.  


Maybe.  


Maybe they just like being mistreated.  Who the fuck am I to tell you no to that?  Like we've figured out mankind.  Like we've figured out culture and shit.  We have NOT, no way, sir!!!


Look at the MTV show.  The one about the guy with no underpants. I want to like that show.  But I can't.  Everybody is too damn clever, and good looking.  Everybody has perfect days.  Everybody gets laid.


That's what's wrong with kids these days.  God damn kids have been getting satisfactory trophies for just showing up for so long, they can't take a shit by themselves without some kind of award show afterwards that says like, " And for best green shit, it's little Maggie.  Way to go Maggie.  Way to take that green shit!  We are all so fucking proud of ya!"


I used to think that writers who told stories about Millennials being super needy was lazy.  I mean you read stories every couple of years in Time or News Max Magazine that tell you how frustrated bosses are at the young people today and you just kind of blow it off.  They can't really be that bad.

That is until one day when I worked with one of these kids.  And for Pete sake.  The kid needed a Trophy every time she sharpened her pencil.  She ended up quitting before I could fire her.

This whole world has gone to shit.  Which reminds me to take my finger out of my ass.  


We probably shouldn't mention that.


I won't.

Why is it that women like me to have sex with them while they sleep???

I am drinking LARGE amounts of wine
in LARGE blue wine glasses

I am a TERRITORIAL she- BEAST
that will indulge you,

only to feast on your intestines

I am walking very fast to get to you

I am bitter:
like a cold
medicine
for
cold sores

I am getting very DRUNK
(quickly)
to amuse
you

I think you like me now
I think you hate me now

You are my fuck biscuit
I am your mountain MAN

I hate slavery

I like to fill my search history full of things like "how to buy slaves on the internet" just for WTF fun when friends and family come over.

But that's the kind of guy I am.  Full of clever shit and funny jokes.

 That's why I got all the bitches.  Tons of 'em.  So many bitches that if you dweebs need one just let me know.  Drop me a comment and I will shoot you over one of my overflow.  Shit's going on motherfucker, I got bitches galore.

I got so many bitchez that guys are always asking me about how I got so many of them.  Well it wasn't cuz I was rich or good looking. Hell no.  No way motherfucka.  Shit bitchesz don't even like that shit.

Bitches want a strong ass motherfucka that can decide for them all the shit they can't decide for theyselves.  Like what's for fuckin dinner and such.

You ever get caught in one of those conversations where you are trying to decide what to have for dinner with your significant other? Well all you gotta do is just tell her where you are going.  Say it like, "We bee eating at Subway."  Bitch we be all like she don't want to eat there but don't fucking worry about that shit.  Just get all adamet  about it and be like, "Look I don't like that other shit, I want some goddamn Subway!!!"


Bitch will look at respect with you.  First time in your life probably.  Next of course she will complain to her friends.  "That dick don't let me eat where I want."  Never tell her friends her pussy got wet.  Never tell her friends she went down on you in the parking lot after eat'n Subway.

You gotta look out for bitches cuz Bitches is slaves.  Always want to be told what to do.  And the thing about slaves is the only thing they know how to do afterwards is complain.

Ladies you wanna make things easy?  Just tell yo man where you wanna eat. If not if yo pussy get wet when you are told to do, shit, then shut the fuck up and eat Subway.

I'm creepin' up on you

Little Jimmy whined like a bitch when I stuck a poker through his eye socket.  Careful though. I had to be careful, I didn't want to get to the mushy brain matter behind Little Jimmy's eyes. Puppies eyes are so damn delicate because they lead right to the brain, and even a tad bit too much pressure could kill Little Jimmy, and killing Little Jimmy was the last thing I wanted to do.  I wanted him to be conscious so that everyday he bumped into the living room furniture it would serve as a reminder to his master not to fuck with me.

Not that I really minded blinding that little pecker.  Fucking thing barked all night, even pissed on me the few times I was generous enough to pick him up and petted him.   

I didn't even have to use my AK 47

Got some good advice, I was told I need to be more positive. She wanted to see something on this blog that wasn't depressing. It was something like, "I always want to stick my head in the oven after reading your blog."

I tried telling her how it wasn't my fault, how nothing good ever happens to me, and how I'm just keeping it real and writing the things I know. But she was like I don't care about that, just make something up.  And wouldn't you know I would be writing this on the bus on the way to work when a homeless women sits right next to me.

Great! I'm thinking another stinky homeless. But she starts tugging at my manhood. I look over at her and she smiles a toothless grin. Then she hands me a blue viagra pill.  "I think you're going to need this." She tells me. And I start thinking, and maybe this is my lucky day.

Good things were just ahead, I got a phone call right before work telling me I didn't have to come to work, but I'd still get paid for my all my trouble.  I  then walked past a gaggle of teenagers, the kind that would intimidate a lesser man even with a few more inches.

The girls were combing each other's hair and discussing trade secrets about how to get their jeans so tight.
"Jenny, if you use super glue you can get your jeans even tighter!"

"Ahah! So, that's how they do it."  I thought and turned around to go home and walked past a couple of Japanese twins. One was close to giving birth. Between lamaze breathing she asked if I needed a ride. She winked and I climbed in. Both girls were wearing catholic school girl uniforms. The pregnant one hiked her skirt up and asked me, if I saw any crowning?

"Nope." Came my reply.
"Then I think we have time." She says.

Her sister had a hard time steering the car into the intersection because she was busy getting me hard.

"Viagra is a hell of a drug!" I told the two Chinese girls who both agreed.

By the time we got home I had popped twice on tiny Asian nipples. "We've got to get to St. Lukes!" They screamed at me as they drove off, big poppa jamming from the lowered windows of the 1987 Mustang convertible.

As soon as I was inside I got another phone call. My little brother had quit meth for good. He'd taken part in some secret CIA fluoridation project in Austin, TX and was clean and sober. He said he was on the way to see me because my middle brother had just won the Mexicana lottery while on a job down south working in a catina offering donkey shows.

"Fuck ya!" I told the mouthpiece which later informed me that Google was releasing a beta version of jelly bean the company's phone software on a brand new Motorola created Nexus phone and they, "totally wanted my input."

What a great day!

Happy New Year Everyone: Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

Why talk about your three inch penis, when we all know that yo dick yo is so large that tribesmen teach their indigenous children that Mother Earth rests on the top of your cockhead?  Is it because you still want to do something with your life?  That's a delicious topping of ass crack.  Some would say that's a good sign at least compared to 2011.

But that's a belief that will kill you.

Here's another idea.

You are not great.  You are not special. You do not have a large penis.  Even if you did, you are fantastic at only turning women off.  You disgust the human yearning for aesthetics.

You will never be rich.  You will die poor.  You will die younger than you should.  You will die like the Kenyan from some preventable disease.  I will laugh at you as you die.  As you take your last breath.  Those of you without anxiety can ignore my truth, but if you had some anxiety you could understand it.   You could identify your tormentors.  You could identify the true victims.  But you are too stupid.  You are still too full.  Your food stamps cover up your failures.  Your unemployment will run out one day, but it will be too late.   You will be sectioned off.  Your shopper card, your ss# your credit score will segregate you to the land of hopelessness.  They will stop TREATING you at emergency room hospitals.

(It already happens.  You are fucking dying. The doctor knows it.  He just won't get paid if he treats you.  Ask him.  What's more important in your file: your medical history or your credit history.)

HE GIVES NOT A SHIT.

But he is not the enemy.   He wants to heal you.  Some part of him at least. (There are humans out there, a small minority.) But soon he won't understand why he'd ever want to help you.  Why?

Fuck the poor.  They stink.  They are stupid.  They are drug infected.

That is the truth.  I deal with the poor.  I am the poor.  We are fucked.  We always have been.

We all have the hope we get  to be middle class.  That's what we mean by everyone can be rich in America. But at last we are losing hope.  Soon we will all know there is no chance of getting rich.  Soon even the stupid figure out shit.

Fuck you when that happens.

Not really.  Nothing will happen.  This is not some foreign country., this is America.  We go down with the ship.  We are the Japanese that do not understand that WWII is over.  We are not the empirical beings are critics hope us to be.  We are fanatics about being Americans.



That's why we walk past homeless people, it's why we abandoned our homes after our interest rates skyrocketed, it's why we sing the star spangled banner at halftime, why we have military planes flyovers, and why we interview the military on gameday. It's not because we are more militaristic than anyone else, but because we are fanatical than most . We are fanatical about being American.

I know we don't seem fanatical to ourselves.  But we are fanatical, my friends.   It's why we don't understand/why we don't care about facts/why facts won't matter and never did.

We are fucking fanatics,  AS FANATICAL as FUCKING ANYONE!!!

You will find this out.  They will keep fucking with us, society will continue to break down.  We will still believe.  Ask DETROIT.  It's a fucking third world country, but they have no clue they stopped living in American years ago.

OWS is not enough.  It has already overextended itself.

Good bye America.

Happy New Year.