Tuesday, May 31, 2005

the mcdonald's corporation of america

It was my job to throw out the lard. Or whatever the fuck it was-- 100% healthful canola oil or some shit-- it was this huge tall bin of white, semi-congealed fat from the fryers with chunks of filet o' fish and floor-dropped hamburger patties that had been stewing at just above room temperature for days. They had a special dumpster for it, this big black steel trap with a heavy lid that opened onto a thick grate, and inside was just months and months worth of this rancid meat fat. The black box would heat up in the sun during the day and all the fat would melt into soupy grease, then it would cool by night and recongeal into a thick gelatinous mass. It smelled like a corpse and there were clouds of flies.

One time I found a dead skunk in there. Someone had left the lid open and the creature had somehow wormed through the four-inch holes in the grate-top, driven mad by the smell of meat. It had dropped down into the grease, which must have been liquid at that point, and I guess it couldn't get a grip on the slippery walls and probably exhausted itself trying to stay afloat. By the time I found it the grease had recongealed and it was like Han Solo encased in carbonite-- its muzzle frozen in a snarl of fear and pain and its little claw forever reaching out, futilely, for the steel bars that were just out of reach.

It was a message-- a symbol of some kind. God was trying to tell me something about the self-destructive nature of my dreams. But I couldn't wrap my mind around it; I was beat, and I had to go mop down the kitchen and get back to making quarter pounders. So I dumped my bucket of warm fat over its face and went back inside.

Monday, May 16, 2005

well fuck

So it's over with this chick. I don't know what the fuck happened but she stopped returning my calls, and we're past the point where she might just be lagging or being coy. Either she found the fucking blog, which would be horrible (and I know she didn't find it before I took all the shit about her down, because at that point she was still talking to me, but of course I couldn't just completely erase the posts like a smart person would do but instead I had to leave those stupid little periods so that people's comments wouldn't be erased, and this was because I was so pleased that anybody was reading the damn thing-- you see, however self-deprecating I get on this thing it can't even approach the truth of just how much of a loser I am) -- which would be horrible but in that instance I would fully have to admit that it was my own preposterously selfish, stupid and weirdly exhibitionist nature that did me in, and I would happily accept the loss of probably the hottest chick I have ever fucked as the consequence of my own actions, as an act of total self-sabotage. And it would still suck but at least I wouldn't have to toss and turn over analyzing it because it would just fit in with the overarching pattern of my life and in the catgory of fucking myself over there are much bigger mental fish to fry.

So either she found the blog-- and either way, now that she's cutting me off I'm going to put those posts back up, albeit without identifying information and without the worst of the ultra-candid scrutiny and judgement that you would never, ever want someone who was its subject to see under any circumstances and if there is even the remotest chance that she ever saw it it would just be the worst, not at all because of the practical loss to me but rather because it would be totally ego-shattering to her in that way that, you know, people are basically not at all prepared to hear a candid asessment of their flaws no matter how much they may press you for it, and she would be totally unable to understand the few nasty comments' place as just elements in a description of my own mental maneuvering to keep from getting totally absorbed in her and also as only a small (but salient) part of a picture whose whole only emphasized how goddamn gorgeous she is.

And even though I've edited the posts it's still dangerous because both the obvious lacunae* and the dumb, self-destructive, and completely avoidable self-references like the one just above are going to tip her off to their existence anyway, thus negating the usefulness of having removed them in the first place.

****** OK-- why the fuck can't I type a sentence without like 10,000 overlong and only vaguely germane tangents attaching themselves to it? Here's what happens-- at night I read Marcel fucking Proust and in the morning I go to the coffee shop and read David Foster Wallace while drinking three enormous cups of light-roast ultracaffeinated coffee and slowly start tweaking out as the over-elaborate language kind of entwines its way into my vulnerable morning brain. But the difference is those guys can pull it off... ******

The origin of the whole fear of her finding my blog:

This chick found my ex-girlfriend's** blog and had a fucking meltdown is what happened. She called me freaking out about how dare that bitch go posting my name all over the internet where all our fucking friends can see etc. etc. and of course I was like "Yeah, how fucking inconsiderate..." meanwhile, I was driving to the gym at the time and pulled a fucking Dukes of Hazzard 180 to get back to my house and take all my old posts down. It was a big disappointment actually because I felt like I finally had something going on that was of interest to people, and I was pretty sure the whole thing could remain totally anonymous since I have a policy of not telling people in LA about my blog. But, fuckstick that I am, I had posted comments on the ex's blog as "vulkoqq," and if you just click on the name, voila, here you are. And she, the ex, dipshit that she is, though God bless her-- had linked to her blog from her fucking Friendster page, which is like come fucking on-- basically proving that she is the one person on Earth who is more sadly desperate to redeem her failure as a writer through dumb-fuck talentless exhibitionism than I am.

*Which as you can see below I have filled in with either asterisks or self-referential descriptions that both give away the very thing they were supposed to conceal and destroy the posts they were placed in both aesthetically and in terms of making sense.

**Courtney is my ex-girlfriend. We dated for a year, were totally in love, thought we were going to get married. We broke up because I can't remain sexually interested in a chick for more than a month. Also she would do things like buy an eight ball of coke at two in the morning, cook the entire batch up into crack and freebase frantically for three hours, then call the drug dealer twenty times at five in the morning to wake him up so he could come over with another eight ball which she would then cook up, etc., all while I was stone sober in the process of recovering from my own long cocaine addiction. And he would accomodate her because he obviously wanted to fuck her and made no bones about showing that fact in font of me. Which is cool, but for Christ's sake-- just buy a fucking quarter ounce at the beginning of the night.

This chick is a childhood best friend of Courtney's. Courtney is still my best friend, and she set the two of us up. And at first she was really cool about it, but after about a week she freaked out and got all jealous (because she still jocks me ***) and this chick started saying shit like "well if it bothers Courtney so much maybe we should just stop."

*** I'm just fucking with you because I know you read this.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

going dark

Of course, now that something interesting is actually happening to me I can't post about it. I will try to put this shit back up soon.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

when i masturbate

When I masturbate, my fantasy is that the girl is using no birth control and begs me not to come in her, but I do anyway. And I think about how she's definitely going to get pregnant, and it will ruin her life. That's what it takes for me to get off.

When I'm fucking Caroline, who does not use birth control and makes me pull out, in order to come I have to concentrate fiendishly hard up to the very last microsecond on the idea that I'm not going to pull out this time, that I'm going to to squeeze her half to death with my big gym arms and crush all the resistance out of her as I pump her full of come, which I know will impregnate her. Which I know will ruin her life.

And then I pull out and sheepishly nut into my boxers.

an addendum

By way of explanation-- when I say "(*potentially inflammatory sentiment omitted--*)" it's not really true. The chick is extremely hot. But when I am most assured of the fact that she's attracted to me she starts to look like that and when I think she' s blowing me off I remember how preposterously hot she is. Everybody's like that, I think-- just horrifically self-sabotaging in a way that-- there's some fucking mechanism, a brutally efficient one, whose purpose is to make sure you're never happy. That if somebody likes you you can never find them attractive, but if they don't give a fuck about you they're painfully beautiful-- this is not news to anybody, my saying this. But Jesus-- it's fucking perverse.

caroline caroline caroline

-- I cause myself more stress thinking about this chick-- and I don't even like her that much. She's just hot, and fun to fuck. But she has (**extremely inflammatory comments about her appearance/ anatomy have been excised**), she's not funny like Courtney was-- oh god I feel horrible typing this shit, i know she's going to find it and read it someday. Except she's not, because the very worst part about her is that she's going to end our relationship soon, I know it. Yeah, kind of a -- her ass kind of looks flabby sometimes but in those cute American Apparel boy-underwear it looks all round and tempting.. mmm... OK,....

Great BJ, great pussy, great skin tone.... fuck, maybe i should call her right now.

I just left her a message. It was an OK message, except for the last part where I stupidly finished with "give me a call" -- which should be just fucking obvious, that's why I'm leaving a message-- and my voice degraded into kind of a plaintive, insecure little upturn, like half-asking a question... but otherwise the message was OK.

caroline caroline caroline-- I can't sustain a chick. My level of vulkoqq* is so low-- it's below zero, antimatter vulkoqq that actually absorbs whatever game I might have from-- look, a fucking EXTREMELY hot chick basically threw herself at me and (was) actually fucking hung up on me, because I'm so goddamn smart and charming-- and I AM STILL FUCKING BLOWING IT. What I need is to also be fucking another chick. It's the only way I can keep the level of confidence that even a normal human being has.

Or I need to keep fucking this chick so I can fuck other chicks**... like my neighbor, the archconservative church girl who's so fucking gung ho about the Iraq war that she named her pet squirrel "General Tommy Franks--" I am not making this up-- but she has big titties. And what's more, I know from a close personal friend of hers that while she is a bible thumping freak who is still a virgin, she has in a kind of letter-but-not-spirit-of-the law trick sucked off 86 guys at the tender age of 22. Which is not that many I guess, but number 87 doesn't seem like it would be such a big deal to her, you know? Ok- and who has a pet squirrel, anyway? Girls from the fucking backwoods, that's who. And those girls are hoes.

I was over there last night to get some eggs, and after the transaction-- I know she is going to suck my dick. I can just tell... some girls, they kind of making a point of standing a litle too close to you when they talk. And the message is: I scarf cock. She's a little thick, too. Getting your dick sucked by a chubby chick is so much more satisfying, somehow...

Holy shit they just invited me over for daiquiris-- see?

Now I'm all nervously overanalyzing my voicemail in retrospect-- "want to see if you still want to hang out, which I definitely do--" who the fuck says that? What the fuck is the matter with me? And I'm taking it apart with a fine toothed comb even though I'VE ALREADY BEEN FUCKING THIS CHICK FOR TWO WEEKS. Jesus fucking Christ! What the goddamn motherfucking fuck is the matter with me? I am some kind of colossal, hideous mistake on the part of God--

She's great to fuck though... she has a really nice pussy-- no flappy deli-meat beef drapes, everything is nice and contained. ... it still tastes OK in the morning, although any chick is going to taste a little sour.... when she gets on top she can move real good... she comes fast, too which is always a fucking relief... although afterwards her pussy gets all loose and I have to pound her all soullessly and machinelike to get off.

Chicks get lazy like that.

Gen. Tommy Franks

* So finally I get around to answering this one. Vulkoqq is like-- girls will never talk to you. But then when you have a girlfriend, suddenly they're all over you because you don't give a shit. That apathetic confidence = vulkoqq.

** Because of vulkoqq-- see?