Friday, October 30, 2009

It would mean a lot to me, Nicole,

if you would move out from Stefan's place and move in with me immediately. I would give you foot rubs and bake you stuff all day. Ice cream for every meal. Unicorn rides. I'm not talking about some gross metaphor for my penis, either, I'm talking about a literal unicorn. I know they're kind of played out as camp but fuck it, fuck what people think. Unicorn *and* pegasus rides. Uni-pegasus rides. Any shit made from a horse and some other thing, you can ride on it. Centaurs. Hippogriffs. The Sea Monkeys' aquatic horse.

You could have Nintendo *and* Sega. I'd even get one of those switches from Radio Shack so you don't have to unscrew the fucking coaxial cable from all the way in back of the TV every time you wanted to switch. You know, how that little nut would never engage-- or it would always FEEL like it was going on but it was really threaded on there crooked and would just spin and spin and spin... you would never have to do that. Also, you would never have to blow on your fucking Nintendo games or do that thing where you don't push it in fully but instead creep it just ever so slightly back from fully in or else you just get flashing colors. If the game stops working, I buy you a new one. Immediately. That's the way shit goes down in the Rogier household. No shit like Deadly Towers, either, I will only buy you Contra and other awesome games.

Seriously, I don't know what else to say. You can decorate the place however you want; throw up a bunch of horse beach towels or whatever girls are into. Figure skating shit. You are talking to a dude who would sell his bone marrow for a single pair of your used panties, is what I'm saying. Fuck it, for a single sniff. I would take a drill into my own bones and sell the resulting goo to the Armenians, who tend to have high rates of myeloma because of inbreeding.

That last fact is true, by the way. They fuck their cousins and get cancer.

Anyway. Let me know what you decide.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Diary 8/11/09: more Seana



What the fuck. I hate writing. I hate writing in the office when there are people around. I am however looking forward to jacking off to the one porn site that (redacted movie studio's) firewall still hasn’t discovered. It’s actually quite a good one.

Yes, this chick never texted me back. “Lexie,“ aka Seana. Beautiful girl. We had a great date. Ended up at her house; we had a Grateful Dead singalong for like 4 hours. I for one had a really good time. And we texted back and forth, and then I sent one kind of stupid text message, and it was over. Never heard back from her. Never will. Maybe I should have called her. But no. You can’t send two unrequited texts and then call her. Maybe I should have called her in the first place. Instead of texting her. Maybe maybe maybe. Every little thing. Maybe it’s something I fucked up in some way. And I would have gotten to have sex with her. But I also would have had to listen to, and pretend to like, her horrible horrible retarded music. Maybe it’s nothing to do with what I did. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. She works 3 jobs, two of which are at night, and has to spend her days flying around on wires into the mouth of a giant puppet of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, while singing. Every day I have to drive by a billboard of the goddamn Creature from the Black Lagoon. There is nothing I can do about it now. I can’t text her. Anything I do would just debase myself, make it worse. This is the same shit that happened with Erin. I’m obsessed with it. The only thing that could possibly make me happy in the entire world would be if she were to text me back. Or If I met another, equally hot chick, who didn’t suck as much.

Diary 8/8/09: Seana

So Seana. Seana has not texted me back. I keep thinking about it. About her. Her face is absolutely perfect. Absolutely every thing about her physical appearance is completely perfect. Her deeper qualities as a human being, less so. Still. I really wanted to go out with her again. I mean, fuck, I really wanted to fuck her. I acknowledged from the beginning that she is not wife material but I am still extremely pissed— actually, no. I am extremely sad. That she hasn’t texted me back. That I will never hear from her or see her again. I really did have a good time singing Grateful Dead songs with her. And drinking and smoking. How important is it to have a chick that drinks and smokes a lot. I keep thinking— eh. Whatever. I mean, maybe one of the dozens of people who overheard me talking about how horrible it was to have to sit on a couch next to her and watch myspace clips of her performing her utterly talentless music with her stupid band, how terrible an experience that was.

Anyway, I thought maybe one of those people would have turned out to be her friend and have heard her version of the story, put two and two together, and told her. But no. No one has ever told me a story about overhearing strangers talking about me in my entire life.

Seana. Why haven’t you texted me back. You are making me into a pathetic chick about this.

She had a yeast infection. Or at least her pussy was extremely sweaty and smelly and my attempt to jam my flaccid drunken penis into it at 6am caused a red dot to appear on my helmet. Why hasn’t she texted me back. I thought she liked me. She told me she got on specifically to email me. Then she threw me for a loop with this whole be your real self thing. If I had been my real self I would have told her I really, really, really want to fucking see you again. I need to do so as soon as possible and I will move absolutely anything out of my schedule to accommodate. But that would have been too desperate. It would have come off as desperate because that is the fucking truth, that I am desperate.

The texting was going well, and then it just stopped. One shitty text. One not-perfectly-though-out text. Everything is too fucking delicate. There will not be a girl that pretty in my life again for as long time. Fortunately there will not be a girl that retarded in my life again for a long time either.

Looking for some cause for this—looking for an answer to something I already know. She just doesn’t like me. Somehow she thought better of it. It’s good. I’m looking for true love. But yeah— what if I had done something different? What if I had been my true self and said those desperate things? The— what the fuck is the phrase from unbearable lightness of being— what would have happened is unknowable. Life is meaningless because you can’t see what would have happened if you had done the other thing.

Diary 7/14/09: further Roxanne

Roxanne. Monty. At least she’s not back on the pill for him. After her comment that her boobs got bigger. I assumed she was in a relationship with him and immediately got on the pill so he could ejaculate inside her. But no. He blew her off. After she would go over to his apartment, listen to records, and “mess around.” Fucking girls. Pah. He’s not blowing her off. Now that he’s “blowing her off” she’s going to obsessively pay attention to him. Calling him, texting him, inviting him to stuff. While I stupidly IM her every day. I can’t not IM her. It is so much harder not to do something stupid than it is to do something stupid.

Diary 7/3/09: still more Roxanne

She left me a message saying she’s been cellphoneless all day. Cellphoneless getting pounded by huge unprotected cock from the love of her life.

Diary 4/10/09: Cara

All right. What the fuck day is it? 4/10/09.

About to go out to Los Feliz to a party with Cara. Cara. Not a bad chick. Everything about her is great on paper. I’m aware I just used a phrase out of sex and the city but god dammit, it’s true. She has big tits. Her face is completely serviceable, although she does have a certain hokey Boston-Irish look about her. She is a little flabby but I like her thick, meaty ass. Also the tits. The tits the tits the tits. She really does have amazing tits. She has a shaved pussy with three large tattoos on top of it. Three gigantic, colorful, detailed tattoos above her pussy. She is on birth control and lets me nut in her. She can give a fucking blowjob without her horrible jagged snaggleteeth grating the skin off your cock.* Without making you feel like your cock was preyed upon by some hideous form of deep sea predator. But I still wish she was Roxanne.


*EXCEPT that I looked at her when she was blowing me and she didn’t even have my fucking dick in her mouth! Can you believe it? She was giving me a fucking handjob while drooling on my cock. It felt good— her blowjobs always felt good, but... insubstantial. And it turns out it’s because she was cheating. How come women just can’t suck a dick. Just put my fucking dick in your mouth. I fucking love to eat pussy. I love having genitals in my mouth— what the fuck is wrong with a dick. I can’t figure out the right way to phrase that.

Friday, October 09, 2009

You should message me if

You have to live in Echo Park. Or at least not fucking Venice, I mean come on. You can’t be an actress. You can’t not smoke. At least, you can’t be one of those girls who won’t even take a drag after three glasses of wine. Because if you’re one of them, I know you’ll never fuck me. You have to be better looking than me. You have to be downright good looking, even though I am not that good looking. I am in crazy shape though. I don’t give a shit if you’re out of shape. I’m not going to ask you to lift anything.

I don’t give a shit about your money, job or car. But you may give a shit about my money, job and car. I have no money, a shitty job, and my car is worth $800. It's primer colored, and the seat belt, windows, sunroof and A/C are all broken. Or rather, the A/C works but only when it's not hot. And someone jacked my stereo. And the car is older than you. You have to be younger than my car.

I don’t care what you think of my cat but you can’t be allergic to cats. I care about your relationship with your dog, meaning—shut the fuck up about your dog. I like dogs but I don’t like you if you have too many pictures of your dog. Believe me, the fucking thing is sick of being your boyfriend. Stop putting up pictures of him. I will not be dating your dog. Unless I’m sure you’re good and passed out.