Friday, January 20, 2006

diary 1/18/06

Yeah, I have to get rid of the car. Because if I fix the turbo then something else is going to go. The fucking shocks.

What the fuck? Why couldn’t I sleep last night? Why did I have to drink that booze? Why am I so fucking fat? Why? Why why why? Why is my car breaking, my rent getting raised, my job falling apart, my personal life miserable-- what the fuck? Why can’t I just be happy?

I’m glad I don’t live in Afghanistan, but still. In Afghanistan, if I were pissed off, I could come home and beat my wife. I hate to say it, but I would probably feel better afterwards. I could fuck my daughter, if I had one. I could fuck my buddy in the ass. Those guys are all polesmokers.

I wouldn’t be bothered by all this existential bullshit, either. I would have a very deep-seated faith that there was an Allah and if I lived a certain way I could get to heaven. I would be poor, but really-- I’m poor now. I wouldn’t have to shave or bathe, and my wife would still have to fuck me. She wouldn’t cheat on me, either—- you don’t have to worry about any of that bullshit over there. They cut their clit off, for one thing, and for another if she *does* cheat you can kill her. Although I bet there are some dry-pussy issues when youre fucking a chick without a clit. And you get to marry them when they're thirteen.

I wouldn’t have to worry about my weight—- in fact my *goal* would be to be fat.

Yeah, well—- it would suck to live in Africa,too. But still—- those guys get laid. That’s why there’s so much AIDS—- because people are constantly fucking, all the time. Bareback, too—- they don’t believe in condoms. They think diseases are caused by spirits and can be cured by witch doctors... and look, a big part of our medicine is all bullshit, too, so I’m not judging them. Seriously.

Fucking—nothing, nothing ever happens...

This day cannot go by fast enough. Each passing second is-- fucking *offensive*-- frustrating—- if I had been able to sleep. If I had been able to fucking sleep—- if it hadn’t been too hot, too cold—- fucking go to sleep sweaty or wake up fucking freezing—- jesus god the fucking time won’t go by fast enough... I need to hurt somebody.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

cocaine journal 1/13: a review of the evening's product

speedy coke. brittle, ground-glass battery-acid-tasting sinus burning jaw-grinding transparent-scorpions-on-every-inch-of-my-skin-stinging-me-over-and-over-with-their-barbs-of-venomous-fire coke. HBO Undercover shaky handheld-cam doc footage of twisted nebraska white trash meth freaks where the 50-year-old mom sits down at the end of the binge with a tupperware bin full of dildos and a VHS porn coke. spasming all parkinson's style hunched over in front of the computer screen as the horrible atom-bomb LA sunrise lances through the blinds and the landord thumps and scrapes on the roof fixing the water heater, sliding the timer bar on the porn back to the exact right second while mauling my raw, flaccid penis coke.

shivering in a sweaty bed, periodically leaning over to blow impossibly long abrasive ropes of blood and snot into a crumpled dish towel, swollen eyeballs grating against the bone rims of their sockets, half-dreaming flash hallucinations of horrible fear and embarassment coke. nightmarish paranoid long walk home coke, cop cars slowing down driving by as you sniff back shiny mucilaginous slime trails that can be seen from miles away coke, what-is-this-red-eyed-trembling-fiend doing out for a walk at 5 am on a saturday morning coke... weird nervous half-nods to joggers and old people out walking their mucous-eyed spaniels coke, spine-janglingly-loud towering garbage truck dogging your steps coke... hideous and malarial...

Saturday, January 07, 2006


what a cunt. i mean, really. i want to send her an email now. the title is going to be "you blew (name omitted)*, for christ's sake!"

you blew (name) fucking (omitted), so i really... i don't think it's fair for you, after my whole deliberate effort not to tool myself out by being over-eager with you, after very deliberately not getting your phone number, not friendster-messaging you until you had done so first, etc.-- not doing a single fucking thing, but i make plans to show up at a mutual friend's and lo and behold you're there-- it's not fucking fair for you to then deliver this whole "can i be really honest with you" monologue bout how after your experience in mexico and general history with guys etc. etc. that you thought, that the first thing that occurred to you upon waking up with me on that air mattress was "as much as i enjoyed my conversation with this guy i really can't get involved in a relationship with anybody so we need to be just friends" or some such unholy bullshit-- i mean-- who fucking asked you? who ever implied anything to the contrary? and i was doing a reasonable job of holding my shit together about the whole affair, being cool with the probable eventuality that nothing would come of it-- and feeling pretty proud of myself for the aforementioned detached, non-self-debasing strategy, and you know , somehow you find the one thing in the whole universe of possibilities that could make this a negative experience for me in retrospect and really piss me off, which is to pre-emptively reject me on some transparently bogus grounds for the purpose of your fucking chick self-aggrandizement. to somehow validate your fucking chick view of the universe as "oh my god, so many guys really want to be in relationships with me but i just need to be free right now."

*he's this guy who's like, 40 years old whom she apparently gave a blowjob to 8 months ago. the point is that these girls are huge whores but then somehow when it comes to me they have to retain their fucking feminine aloofness