I get a hug from a girl

I'm a cashier. I spent yesterday and today checking out your groceries. Asking you for your value card. And trying to remember the difference between acorn squash and butternut squash.

Not much else has changed for me since I was moved from the customer service desk to cashier. But my sudden move to cashier has had benefits. I now get hugs from the hottest 17 year old bagger you've ever seen. I don't know why, or what I did to deserve it. But she walks up from behind me and says hello and then starts to awkwardly hug me.

Maybe she wasn't the awkward one. I was. I just stood there frozen the first time she hugged me. The second time I got a hug I was getting off work and she hugged me goodbye. I put my hand around her back on the second hug. She's so skinny I can feel her ribs. Feeling up on a 17 year old girl's skinny rib is as close to second base as I've come with a girl in 4 years.

Before her shift today I got another hug again. She surprised me this time by coming up from behind me and placing her arms around me. This time it really was awkward, as I have been farting all week. Not only have I been farting, but my ass has been smelling. My ass normally smells because I have to ride a bike to work every day after I take my morning dump. So today I decided to skip the morning shit and try holding my shit in all day. But my colon must be leaking, because I stank like shit all day anyway. I get a whiff of shit smell every time I turn around quickly, like when some strange, hugging hot chicks place their heads on the back of my neck and squeal at me.

All this hugging must be a generational thing. All the girl baggers and teen cashiers at my store are all so sweet and cute. They talk to me and say hi. It's like being back in high school, only this time I am kinda popular. I don't mean captain of the football team popular, but I get invited to the parties, and I can sit at the cool kids lunch table. So I take back all the mean things I say about Generation Y, because I am really pissed at all the girls I went to high school with. You never said hello to me in the hallways. You couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge me except in the library, and only when no one was looking at us and you needed help with the card catalog.

So I don't need you old chicks anymore. I am going to buy all the courtesy clerks at my work a ton of alcohol. I'm gonna watch them get drunk and film themselves and put their silly self-conscious videos on you tube. That's me in the background waving at you. Red faced and drunk my beer belly and smelly ass stuck in a bean bag I can't get out of. Pass me another beer, dude.

Thanksgiving means I have to talk to you

If you come through my line I am required to speak to you, even though my Thanksgiving was uneventful and all you want to do is ask about me how my holiday went. I want to tell you that I only celebrate one religious holiday a year, my birthday. I want to tell you that I had to work this Thanksgiving just so you could buy all the dry ice and beer you need to celebrate, that most of my family is out of state this Thanksgiving, and all my friends had better things to do this year than invite me over for turkey dinner. So maybe I had the worst Thanksgiving ever and I 'd rather not talk about it. But you don't want to hear that. I'd like to stop pretending that my holiday was "pretty good," I want to tell you that I didn't even get the pathetic single friend "left over" plate from my friends who celebrated this Thanksgiving without me. I thought that shit was obligatory. I think my friends expect me to believe that they ate an entire bird, and that not a drop of stuffing was left. Bullshit.

Instead yesterday, a full two days after Thanksgiving and still needing my turkey day fix, I bought a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken from the deli of my grocery store. I made stuffing all by myself, and then I microwaved half a packet of dried mashed potatoes and covered them with store bought gravy. It was quite delicious, thank you. I bet you don't want to hear how I have nothing to be thankful for that I didn't make myself.

I am only talking to you because my boss told me that I have to. She was hovering over me as i was trying to leave today, she took my money drop and watched me listlessly scan the last few customers I had in line. I didn't want to talk to them, so I made no effort to pretend in front of her. I was pissed off, because I was already a good 25 minutes over my scheduled time to go home. And the only reason I got to leave at all was I looked over at my manager and gave her the "If you don't block my line off I will slit the throat of your first born son and drink his blood." She got the message and finally blocked me.

I rode the bike over to the library right after work to blog this story. Not because this is a particularly interesting story, but because I know you need to be on the inside of my inner mental life. I thought you'd like to hear that a second girl gave me a hug, that way you won't have to think I'm such a loser.

I'm on a roll. Lisa is the the second girl to hug me this week at work. She says she loves me, but then she called me old. She told me I looked just like another guy we work with. That dude is like 40, so I got depressed. Then she made fun of my pimple. I've had a pimple stuck on my nose for the last 6 weeks. It simply won't go away. It's so big the Astronomical Society has decided to rename my pimple, Pluto. They believe my pimple has a larger gravity constant than any object in the near Kupier belt. It's kinda cool that my pimple was named a 9th planet though. Kids look up me to me and want my autograph. People who come through my line feel obliged to ask about it. They wonder what how it's going and what my pimple is up to. "Does it mean you have 2 brains?" Lisa the hugging courtesy clerk asks. "Is that why you are so smart?" Yeah, that's right, Lisa. Which I guess is two more brains than you'll ever have."Why don't you just come over here and give me another hug?"

This post is for the KIDS.

She hugs me from the front. If I suggest that a couple of king sized pillows get in our way is that too subtle? Then L. rests her head on my shoulder. How sweet is she?

I get to describe this hug. But the description has to be edgy. Otherwise L. says she isn't going to read my blog anymore. I tell L. that my blog isn't "edgy" anymore because she has forbidden me to blog about the hugs she gives me at work. I ask L if we can post pics of her on my blog. I figure a pic of her hugging me will prove to all of you out there that I am not gay, or a pedophile. Or at least not gay. But she rebukes me, sighting "possible stalkers" as the reason she won't be featured on the blog. I tell her if we charge guys $1.00 to get a cyber hug from her, she could make enough money to stop asking me for quarters everyday. No dice again.

Now that I'm allowed to blog about the hugs that L. gives me again, I still have to worry that my stepsister will read my blog, now that I looked her up on myspace. I am pretty sure she's gonna have a cow over how I depicted our childhood.

Even if sis never finds the blog, I can't imagine she reads, I still have to worry what Card Sharks's g/f thinks of me. At the Five and Diner I mention that I went to the see a movie on my day off yesterday. He asks which one. I tell him Juno. He vomits ketchup across the table at me. "You really like teen girls, don't you? That's not just an act." He can barely control the laughter. I calmly reply that the movie has made like 65 million dollars, so I am hardly the only person to see the film and that it has gotten rave reviews. "Plus" I add. "It's not like I watch Nickelodeon or TIVO Zoey 101 or something creepy like that. "You watch Hannah Montana." Counters Card Shark "I don't watch entire episodes of Hannah, I just flick it on to see if she is wearing a short skirt."

To my knowlede Miley Cryus has never been accused of molesting strangers.

[An aside}

L. hates Juno and thought it was over-hyped. I agree that it was much too hyped but I still thought it was a good movie. But you can totally tell the female character was written by a dude. A 16 year old girl who loves punk music and knows more about old horror/slasher films that the prospective 36 father is completely ludicrous. Not to mention that Jason Bateman as the adopt a dad turns in a fine performance as the ass grabbing, not-quite-sure-I-am-ready-to-be- a-dad, 30 something that all men my age truly are.

It turns out though that I may have been a bit to tough on the writers of Juno. The drudge report is highlighting the case of a 13 year old girl who was arrested for sexually assaulting a couple of boys on her bus route.

There is not much to the story as one of the 311 commenters on the web points out "My problem with this whole incident, IS, what in the world, ever possessed the Reporter, and then the Editor, of this RAG. to print this story, in the first place. There are FEW FACTS, no names, little Information, and not likely to get more, in the future."

Judging by the fact that this story with no facts, pictures or information can spark 311 comments, it's no wonder that Drudge has it blasted on his front page. Kudos to the girl for her induction into the Jail Bait hall of Fame.

And from Gawker, another Hall of Fame candidate ... Creepy Celebrity stalker website narrates

HS: Taylor Momsen, aka Jenny from (cult show) Gossip Girl, wearing a very short skirt... I noticed her because she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, showing her underwear to all... on the 1 train, heading uptown. Got off at Lincoln Center, looked lost."

I think this guy is full of shit. First off I don't see any underwear, and I have photoshop technology. And sometimes I think girls just cross their legs because of poor circulation. Poor girl probably has juvenile diabetes. I'm sure her doctors have warned her that wearing underwear causes loss of circulation, and not crossing her legs in public will mean amputation of those legs and toes for sure. Which would seriously lower her hottness factor by a shade or two. Excepting for certain really perverted fetish sites.

group hug // anonymous online confessions

group hug // anonymous online confessions

Fun way of getting through a day at work.

My day off as a homeless bum

Sunday.

I am sick. I have been blowing my nose all day. My throat is sore, and I still taste the "water based paint" in the back of my throat. The construction workers were supposed to come over at 10 am but let me sleep until noon. I was gone by then and planned to stay out all day. I was out doing the same thing I do whenever I had a day off and was married. I went to the bookstore. i could not find a replacement copy for the lost Bukowski novel. I refuse to buy a new book. I want to pay used prices for my book since I already bought it.

I drove around to several different barber shops that I like but they were all closed. Sunday is not such a good day to have off if you want to get anything done other than watching the NFL.

I went to the movies to get out of the heat and fumes. I saw Tropic Thunder. It was pretty good and Tom Cruise is the funniest dancer ever. I walked around the mall a lot and bought a 5 dollar shake from some hamburger joint where the staff dances on the half hour. I remember a certain hitman in a Quentin Tarantino movie who was made aghast at the prospect of purchasing a 5 dollar shake, but with gas prices and the recession it seemed like no big deal to me.

I would like to gripe about all the aggressive cell phone salesman in the mall. There must be 30 kiosks of cell phone providers and every time you walk by one they "just want to ask you a question." I can assume a special place in hell for the man who allowed all these pushy cell phone salespeople to exist.

I retired to my room and barricaded myself away as much as possible from the fumes. I did not eat dinner but I did go to Walgreen's to purchase a new toothbrush (I am afraid that the paint fumes have soaked my old one), fruit juice and some water.

I had difficulty breathing all night and the A/C was out. Only in my room. The rest of the house was livable but smelled like paint. My room has yet to be painted so I chose to lie in a warm bed rather than breathe in toxic fumes.

Monday

I laid restlessly in bed until 7am when I took some aspirin. My fever subsided and I was able to breathe on my right side. My throat still hurt and I still taste paint and the workers woke me up at 9am. I stayed in bed till 12pm and woke and showered and ate a Whataburger (I never eat at Wendy's anymore) and now I am posting all this crap here.

I hope my readers will stick by knowing that all I can produce right now is what they are reading. I am in a weakened state. I lack energy of all sorts. I drove by the Fro's house 3 times yesterday. No one was home. I must assume he is missing. Who knows for how long? Maybe I will visit his parents to find out more. Either way it appears I am stuck in the house for the foreseeable future.

A young black woman checked me out on the way in to the library today. I must look worse than I feel. Which would be awful. My eyes are solid red. I am sure I have the super aids. I need to quit exposing myself to the virus. I will certainly catch it one day. When I do I will never get a girl friend. I will die alone.

The library is unbearable. Warm and moist with the constant stream of cell phones interrupting my concentration. A homeless man is seated at my table with McDonald's. I think he wants my coke. I think that he is living dangerously.

Every one near me sneezes. I blow my nose and go through two tissues as I type this post. I hate being sick. I hate the heat. It is only making the homeless situation difficult. I think the workers are expecting me to pack my belongings. They want to begin work today in my room. I will have no safe haven. They keep blaming Card Shark but I know that it is there fault. They don't ask him permission to start work. They just go where they need to. I blame them for all the headaches. I don't trust water based paint. I am sure I am developing some kind of disease from exposure.

The homeless man stood up to see if he could take a swig from my soda. The soda is placed on the table just outside of the computer room. You can't bring a drink in to the computer room and the homeless man wants to wash down his Big Mac with my cola. Fuck him. You can't have my fucking Coke dude!

I work in one hour. My heart is racing. I am out of wack. People want things my coke. I taste paint in the back of my throat whenever I swallow. I am having a bad day people. Don't you wish you were me? Today the library hid the Internet explorer from me. But I am tricky and I know that just because there is no icon for Explorer that there is still a way to access the Internet. Fuck them! They think they got me but they lose too!! My upper lip is sweating. That is not a good sign. I wipe the sweat as it collects in my goatee. I think people notice me wiping away at the sweat.

I type all this in under one hour. I checked my email. I forgot to mention that 2 of my former teen sister wives are now working at the movie complex I visited. I got a hug from one. You are jealous no doubt. She wore a cute bow tie. She held in her hands the broom and pan needed to scrape up popcorn. I did not ask her to get me into a second movie for free. Netflix finally delivered me a couple of movies.

Did I mention I went drinking on Friday? I was hung over all day Saturday.

Luck Charm please send me a link to your blog through email. I lost it on my roommates computer. I miss following your blog as it is a quick read!

Your homeless blogger,
Romius T.

p.s.

I need to poop right now. But I don't have any wipes. I will have to poop in at work where I can purchase some. I am spending money to fast. I can't save any. I hate when I hold in my poop all day at work. It makes for an uncomfortable day. I am already sick and exposed to toxic shock syndrome now I must shit. The body. No matter what. It imposes on us. Drags us into the here. I sweat. I ache. I need sex. I need to stop all the masturbating to the Olympic gymnasts. A few were 20 years old and bendy. I masturbated high to fumes and sudafed. I noticed my penis is bigger than you thought it was. I have a time magazine with a picture of a six inch ruler. I think you will be impressed ladies. A full two inches when flaccid. No problem at all. I need to stop typing I have 2 minutes left!

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.  

Part 1 of the St. Patrick Holiday Re-cap (edited)

I can still smell the cigarettes on me.  The stale ash is buried in my nasal passages like a band of Hobgoblins making camp from my Dungeons & Dragons playing days. (The above link is an advertisement)


My plan to celebrate St. Patrick's Day was to go downtown to Mill in Tempe and walk around downtown on E.  I wanted to visit as many different bars as I could.  That way I could check out the vibe of each place and see which one was the best bar to chill at whenever I used.


But instead I ended up at the Yucca Tap Room all because Emma asked me to meet her at a bar after work.  


When a 65 year old woman asks you out to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day you feel like it is the right thing to do, since you have no idea if she will still be around next year to go drinking with.


I love hanging out with Emma. She has such a young soul.  Whenever we are together she tells me stories form her "whoring around period."  I love listening to Emma remissness about her glory days.


I got off work that night earlier than everyone else.  Emma and the most of the rest of the gang I hang out with from work did not get off work till after midnight. 


8pm


I got dressed to go out at work.  I chose the Khaki pants I wear at work, because they look like fake Dickie's, and I wanted to try and pass for hipster.  I wore a black t-shirt that told the world I was "Irish for the Day."  The shirt and pants went well with my new, fake, black converse shoes.


I was feeling good about myself because I had received a number of compliments about the shirt.  not only that but I was feeling skinny because I had skipped lunch and dinner that day.  I don't eat before I drink anymore, because otherwise my liver is too strong and I don't feel the buzz anymore.


After getting dressed in  a stinky public restroom, I walked over to the Yucca Tap Room.  The Yucca Tap is an institution in Tempe and is one of the few remaining dive bars around.  The Tap is just a regular neighborhood bar, but it has worked fiercely to retain its working class vibe despite the influx of hipsters from ASU.


In a nod to the growing influence of the hipsters and the affluent the owners have built a new trendier, upscale bar right next to the Yucca.


I'd never been inside the new bar but was curious, so I took a chance and went inside.      


Once inside the bar I had a nice conversation with the first guy I sat down next to.  He worked promoting Left Foot Beer, a small brewery in Oregon.  We talked about what makes beer special and he gave me a short version of the speech he gives to all his customers.  


He told me how I probably grew up drinking Coors Light and I was all of a sudden interested in trying something new because I could afford it.


The guy sounded a bit like he was reading off a script when he talked, but he still managed to seem genuine.  A neat trick for a guy in his business. 


I did not tell him I had been drinking for 25 years, and had been trying small pubs and different beers since I was in my mid twenties. Not did I tell him how I hated Coors Light (that is until they made those cool temperature activated cans.  Sorry, but I really like knowing my beer is cold.) 


I drank non-mainstream beer from around the time the at-home brewing phenomenon took off.  I was also pretty familiar with beer (mostly because I had friends who had made their own beer.)   over the years my friends have forced me to try hundreds of different kinds of beers.


But I soaked up his wisdom and played the fool for him because it made him happy.  


While he talked I waited for one of my coworkers to get off work.  On my way to the Yucca my friend Mari surprised me by saying she wanted to get together for a beer after she got off work.  She told me she got off work at 9 and I should expect her around then.


I glanced down at my cell to check the time and to the chagrin of my Left Foot sales guy  I ordered a second Four Peaks beer.


"Loyalty to a hometown brew is nice, but other places make a fine beer."  He cautioned me.


"I know you FEEL like you have a connection to a hometown pub, but really it's just that."  He looked over at me smugly.


I thanked him for the psychological insight and accepted his offer of a shot of stout that was made by his company.


He was right they made a nice stout, "But you have to be a  stout person to enjoy a stout."  He agreed with my comment and later in the night before he left he bought me a beer that he told me I was guaranteed to love, "Since I like Kilt Lifter so much."


A female coworker of his offered me a free t-shirt.  Pumped, I gladly accepted the free offering.  It felt like years since the last time I got a free t-shirt,or free glass on St. Patty's Day.


I was excited until I looked down at the tag and noticed 2x Large.  


"Am I fat looking?"


I shrugged off the feeling assuming it was the last shirt she had and that all the hipsters in the bar room wanted extra small shirts to go with their skinny jeans.


At 9 o'clock I was wondering where Mari was.  Like a gypsy with ESP she sent a text telling me she was on her way.


"First condition." She texted me. "Is that you have to buy me a drink."


"You bet!"  I answered her text back quickly, looking forward to talking to some oneI actually knew.  


Not that I did not enjoy talking to the people at the bar.  I ordered food from the bartender after the guy next to me overheard me talking to myself about getting drunk fast because I had not eaten much.


He suggested the pizza. He said it was a lot like Red Devil's Pizza, a pizza I really enjoy.


I scarfed the pizza down as soon as it came.  The crust was thin and chewy.  The sauce was sweet and ripe.  The cheese tasty.  My only complaint would be that half the crust was soft.  I assume from sitting under a hot lamp for too long.


When Mari arrived we gave each other a quick hug.  She sat down next to me wearing the exact same shirt I had on.  We both bought the shirt at work that day for $2.43.  


We made a joke about being twins and Mari took photos of us highlighting our shirt to post later on her Facebook profile.


Mari placed her phone down on the table just as the bartender approached us.  He asked her what she'd like and she yelled over the jukebox that she'd like "a long island." 


I shot a look at the bartender and told him to "put it on my tab."  The bartender gave me an admiring look and whispered "smart move."


Mari and I laughed off the bartenders suggestion and we got to talking about twitter.  I told her how to access her account and how to follow my twitter on her phone.  I then began to follow her tweets on my phone as well.


I am a big phone geek now so we talked about twitter and her cell phone for a good 30 minutes, trying out new things on her phone and twittering to all of our friends in hopes they would show up.


Mari sipped her Long Island carefully and complained to me that her drink was too strong.  Then she ran outside to answer a phone call from her husband.  She told him she was meeting some friends after work for a quick drink.  I think Mari felt guilty telling her husband that she was meeting "friends"  when they all turned out just to be me.


After Mari returned from her phone call I got a text from Leif saying that he was going to show up around 10.  I decided there was no chance of me getting to Mill Ave. so I decided to excuse myself from Mari and pop my e tablet in the dive bar next door.


Stay tuned for St. Patty's on E.

I Hate My Life

"God, I HATE MY LIFE."

I say that to that no one really.

"I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that when you have your penis inside me." My exgf says.

My ex gf is wondering about my penis.

"What's wrong?" She asks.

I think my ex gf is wondering why my penis is 'suddenly' soft. I try to tell her that it is nothing to worry about. "That's what happens to men my age." I tell her.

What my exgf does not realize is that my penis is always that small or soft when inside her. I think about telling her that, and I think about telling my ex-girlfriend that my impotence is all her fault.

She's had 5 babies from 4 different men. I want to tell her that all those years she spent fisting herself for men at the peep shows for 2 dollars a minute left her pussy busted and incapable of providing friction to anything smaller than a midgets arm. That my penis is only aroused initially into the sex process. I get hard and then I fuck for a while, but the longer I fuck the smaller my dick gets. Right before I cum my cock shrivels up like an 8 year old's dick in one of those  kiddie play pools.

Inexplicably, right after I cum my dick gets huge again, sometimes it blows up to 4 inches or more. So I always make sure to pull out after I cum and wipe my penis all around her vagina. That way she sees what she assumes to be a normal sized dick. Because the dick now looks normal she has to assume that the dick was that size whenever it was inside her and that any lack of sensation she felt during our love making was her fault because as I explained to her, "an episiotomy does nothing about putting a woman's womb back together."

"It's all done for looks, Dear." I tell her.

She nods back at me and begins to chew on her nails. I am always trying to impress my girlfriend with how smart I am by making wise cracks about "the epistimology of episiomoties. "

My girlfriend has no idea why I think I am so smart. All she knows is that I read a lot and that I tend to make the most disgusting comments she's ever heard.  She has no idea if that makes me smart. Whenever she tries to quantify anything in particular about me that is actually smart she has trouble coming up with anything.

"I know the names of all the continents." I try telling her. I don't think I am very convincing. I am also done wiping my cum on her vagina. She is holding the empty condom with pinched fingers like it is a bag of poop.

"What should I do with this?" She waves the the latex prophylactic at me.

"I guess we could reuse it." I tell her. "Since it ain't got no cum in it."

"Why do you always talk in a southern accent after fucking?"

"I got no fuckin' idea." I tell her. I decide I am going to drop my g's for the rest of the day. That'll teach her.

In the play pen next to the bed you can hear her 2 year old rustlin' around. I think the sex has woken the girl up, and that means we can't go to sleep for hours. Once her little one is awake there is no sleep. She screams and cries. I tell her mom that, "Nicki might be autistic, because I've never seen a kid rock herself so much."

My exgf tells me that she is just "soothing herself." And I tell the ex that "soothing behaviors" are "straight up Autism...yo...yo."

Ex-Gf just cranes her neck at me and then gives me a look. Nobody ever takes me seriously. I hate that. The exgf has still not disposed of the empty condom. It just lies on the cabinet, pathetic.

The air smells of shit instead of sex.   Mostly because the trash can next to the bed is full of dirty diapers. The air should smell of sex, but I think that only happens when the girl has an orgasm.

I can't give my ex an orgasm. I think her pussy is too stretched out. Also, even though we have dated for 3 years she is, "not comfortable with me going down on her." Since she won't let me eat her out, all I can do is use my dick on her. I know my dick is not doing the trick, because she wants me to get some kind of piercing in it. She told me that her ex boyfriend had one and she, "used to cum a ton with that guy." She also tells me that she, "only cums with some guys."

"It's mostly a sexual chemistry thing." She tells me. Like that's supposed to comfort me. That we don't have sexual chemistry.

I assume by "we" she means "she" because I can cum as long as I don't masturbate during the week, and as long as we don't use a condom, and as long as I am not on anti-depressants. Then cumming is pretty easy. As long as we are doing it doggy style, and one of her kids is not knocking at the bedroom door.

Somewhere in the house a dog has shit on the floor.

I won't discover that fact until tomorrow. I won't step in it. But I will notice that the place smells worse than normal over a breakfast of Cheerios without bananas. It's the only breakfast food in the house, because the ex-gf has traded away all her food stamps so she can make her next car payment.

I ask the ex if she wants a little money for gas so she can get to work. She tells me she doesn't have to go to work until Thursday and if I give her gas money her sister will end up using the car and waste all the gas going to see her boyfriend who lives in Payson which is 60 miles from here.

I snort loud enough for my ex to get the point. She needs to be able to say no her family now and then. I wonder aloud "why she can always be guilt tripped by other people, but not me."

I figure it has something to do with how unsexy I look out of clothes. She once told me that I looked good until I took my shirt off. She told me not to worry that, "because looks are not that important for her" and that "men who look better than me often have shitty attitudes and end up breaking her heart."

I tell her that all that honesty sounds like emotional abuse to me. Then I tell her 5 year old to pour me a glass of chocolate milk, "If you are going to make yourself a glass of milk...make me one too."

The first time I met the 5 year old he hugged me goodnight. I got creeped out by the kid doing that. He did not know me, but he thought it was ok to hug a strange man he'd never met before. I guess he just figured I was his new daddy, and he might as well get a good start with this daddy so maybe new daddy would not run away.

I felt too sorry for him to tell him the truth. That I was just lonely and needed a little part time pussy, and his mom let me fuck her. Of course it took me hanging around her house for hours at a time and for days on end to ever get a little nooky, and by then the offspring would get attached to me. They would ask me to play games with them. They had a bunch of board games in the attic that must have been bought at a yard sale because all the boxes were broken and some of the pieces to the games were missing.

The ex hated playing with her kids. I hate board games too, but sometimes the ex gf smoked pot, and whenever she smoked pot she would forget she had kids and would stop looking after them. That's when I had to take care of the kids and entertain them and I would usually give in to their suggestion that we play Sorry for the millionth time.

I would play Sorry and I would look over at my ex gf smoking and getting high. She would flirt and laugh at her sisters boyfriend. She would give him looks whenever she thought her sister wasn't looking. I caught her more than once and I am sure her sister did too. I think her sister liked to pretend that it meant nothing, since her sister was 6 years older and since her sister always claimed to hate younger guys.

"That's why I hang around old fart's like him." She would point over at me and then they would all look over me. My ex, her sister, and her sister's boyfriend. They would look over at me and have a big laugh like the term "old fart" was just invented for me. Whenever they laughed at me I tended to look down at the game board and pretend to busy myself with some operation of game play like I was really into the game and missed out hearing their little inside joke.

The kids would laugh too, but they only laughed for the  reason that kids always laugh whenever they hear a bunch of adults laughing. They figure something funny had just been said and even though they did not understand it they don't want to seem left out of all the fun.