Friday, March 18, 2011

Diary 3/4/11: I need to get laid

I could have fucked her. If I had played my cards right. If I had gone for the makeout earlier. I got her back to my house. I got her shirt off, anyway, although she kept buttoning her pants back up. But when I was kind of kissing around her hipbones, she was getting really hot. So, I should have played it better. I should have gotten those pants off. I could have done it. I could have gotten her hot enough to get her pants off, and then I would have fucked her. And I would be just as hung over, just as sleep-deprived, just as tired, but I would have gotten laid.

Because now I need to get laid. Getting laid by a new woman is like methadone and my maintenance dose is running out. Last new girl I fucked was the end of January. So that’s how long it lasts. About a month. About a month between fucking a new chick and feeling again like I’m completely undesirable.

Now I’m right back to where I started– out a bunch of money for this stupid fucking date and I still need to get laid. I had been trying an experiment where I wasn’t going to make any effort- I wasn’t going to say or do anything I wouldn’t say or do if I weren’t trying to get laid. And I burned right through that. Everything I did, it was all about-- will there be girls there. Will there be new girls I haven’t already tried to fuck and been rejected by. Will I get laid. Can I get laid. It’s been one month and now I’m instantly back to feeling like you may never get laid again. Because OKCupid-- look, I get that my profile, specifically saying things exactly like this, is probably a turnoff, but it’s also true that the amount of girls on here who are not straight out of the cheap low-oxygen domes in TOTAL RECALL or you know, just really fucking overweight- the amount of girls who are neither of these things and yet display any kind of sense of humor or personality is vanishingly small. And of course it is. Of course. All the good ones are taken. All the things the old spinsters I used to work with used to bemoan are now all coming true of me-- I spend my nights hanging out with my Lesbian friend and her cat. All the good ones are taken or gay.

OKCupid girls suck and real life, forget about it. Forget this 51-49 shit they tell you in, uh, demography class because the world is 80 per cent male. At least. I have not been in a single environment where women outnumber or even match the amount of men in about ten years-- I’m talking literally not even for five minutes. I went to fucking Lesbian dance night and there were more guys than girls there. I am not kidding. Go to the grocery store and do a headcount. The grocery store is where you go to buy vegetables, tampons and diapers-- things they advertise on Lifetime. Detergent. The grocery store has been at least seventy per cent dudes every time I go.

Women must-- like, it must be like the Shakers. We live in a sexually segregated society where women lead separate, secluded lives. They must have their own special grocery store they go to, or they must go there during business hours when the menfolk are working. They must have their own secret parties, bars, and restaurants that are like Platform Nine and Three fucking Quarters, visible only to them. Every girl everywhere I go has three horny dudes besides me hitting on them and these guys all have better game.

What it is is, they are probably all just fucking the same dude. Some bartender.

Seventy Seven Cents on the Dollar

I keep hearing on Adam Carolla that women made more money than men last year. Women made 51% of the money. Because construction jobs went away, basically. There are less employed carpenters, electricians, and plumbers. Dude jobs. This must be money made by wage earners only because I can’t imagine that a couple big hedge fund guys alone couldn’t tip the balance back towards the bros. But maybe those are joint assets. So maybe it’s true: women made more money than men.*

I’ve brought this up a couple times, to a couple women, and they both freaked out. Like, NO, that is NOT TRUE. Or even if it were, women still make less for the same work anyway. If you and me had the same job, I would be making seventy seven cents on the dollar.

They love that one and don’t want to give it up. You begin to feel that if we established wage parity in this country the pain of having to stop railing on that figure would outweigh the financial gain. Seventy seven cents on the dollar. A knee jerk reaction, bringing that up, and then whenever it’s brought up on the internet you get the corresponding knee jerk guy saying when you control for the hours actually worked and maternity leave and blah blah blah the real figure is more like ninety nine cents on the dollar. Which I kind of believe, because I don’t know a single woman in my industry at the same level as me that makes less than me or any other dude I know. But who the fuck knows?

I should go research this and get to the bottom of it but I feel like it’ll just be a rabbit hole of debate by people with agendas on both sides. Women clinging desperately to the sacred idea that they’re victims of broad oppression, and the far more obnoxious whiny men who’ve set up this countermovement of you guys don’t have it so bad, women are now 60 per cent of the Ivy League, you can still take my money if you get a divorce, etc. Which, if you don’t have any money because you got forced out of your Ivy League education by some girl with higher SAT scores, what are you worried about?

Seventy seven cents on the dollar and one in four women are raped. And rapes are grossly underreported and when they are reported the conviction rate is freakishly low, so the amount of women that are raped is unknowable, but we know that it’s one in four women are raped. Again, no idea how they came up with this– it feels like some agenda-driven bullshit straight out of the Womyn’s Center™, but what people really mean is to bring up a larger point: basically, a shitload of women get raped, and it’s terrible (and some man should do something about it). I don’t know if they’re talking about Biting Beaver rape where giving a chick two glasses of chardonnay makes you Uday Hussein, or the classic ski mask guy with a box cutter grabs a jogger by the ponytail, but whatever.

Seventy seven cents on the dollar, and one in four women are raped, and one in ten people is gay. Or men at least. One in ten is fully gay and only one in ten is fully straight, and the other eighty per cent are bisexual, which would seem to imply that it’s distributed so that the guy who’s in the eleventh percentile of being gay is into dudes ninety nine per cent, that half of these bisexuals are mostly into men. That one got kicked around in my very progressive junior high school and no one ever called it a crock of shit. I think it traces back to some study done by Kinsey where ten per cent of men had had at least one experience of homosexual activity in childhood, whether voluntary or involuntary. But it turned into the idea that if you describe yourself as heterosexual, or if only girls give you a boner, it is really you that is in some tiny minority. Some freakish aberration. Who knows. I try making out with a dude every five years just to make sure and it makes my dick shrink into an acorn. Which sucks, because gays always grab the dick during the makeout. I’m sure they talk.

Seventy seven cents on the dollar, one in four women is raped, only one in ten men is straight, heterosexual sex carries a huge risk of AIDS, etc. etc. etc. All these things, all maybe bullshit, but I agree with the larger points. This is bullshit constructed to support an agenda that I endorse. Of course a woman doing the same work as a man should get exactly the same amount of money (although, try actually doing the same amount of work, you lazy cunts.) Of course women get raped far too often and it’s completely fucking horrible. Of course people should lay off the fucking gays for having one attribute that, while relatively rare, is inborn, natural and normal. Of course we should have given money to fight AIDS back in the eighties instead of brushing it off because it only affects junkies and gays.

All these things are things I agree with but all of these statistics make me want to punch whoever says them in the fucking mouth. Because at best they’re meaningless boilerplate and at worst they’re fucking destructive lies.

Anyway.

* Or maybe it’s bullshit from some douche with an agenda.

Sunday, March 06, 2011

But I can't get laid

So I was watching some horse porn last night, and it occurred to me: guys can convince a reasonably good-looking woman to jerk off, blow, and fuck a horse, and then take its massive stallion load about the face and tits on camera. But I can't get laid.

And this girl was cute! She was way cuter than any of the girls at either of the bars I went to last night in Echo Park, a supposedly "hip" neighborhood in a major American metropolis reputed to be a mecca for the most attractive women in the entire world.

But there was not a girl this cute in either of those bars, and if there had been, there would have been a million dudes shoving each other out of the way to get a second of her time. And even if there weren't those dudes, I would still be too chickenshit to talk to this girl. And she would certainly not come up and talk to me. Or even if we had got to talking, I would have had to play it perfectly, not fuck up at all, not not be entertaining and cool, even for one second. Not fuck up in any way. Or else the conversation would just fall off, because as a guy it is one hundred per cent your responsibility to hold it up.

Or you would get the phone number and she wouldn't return your call, because you had fucked up the conversation in some way that you weren't even aware of. Or you would go out, and ask her out on a second date and she would say yes, but then you would text her on date day to confirm and she would send back a vague text about a previously forgotten "prior engagement," without proposing a different night for the date, meaning, not only was she going to flake, but she didn't even want to flake in advance. She was playing a game of flake chicken with you where winning would be you not texting the time and place of the date in the first place so she wouldn't have to even bother to send you a text back with this transparent non-excuse. And if you even got down the road that far it means she showed up at the bar, you talked to her at all, you talked to her long enough to get her number, and she, one of three or less attractive women in the entire bar packed wall-to-wall with dudes who are better looking and more confident than you- she does not have a boyfriend. Of course, none of this is ever true. She is never there, you never talk, and she always has a boyfriend.

But somewhere on this planet there is a cute girl in her twenties who can be talked into publicly fucking a horse! And three Japanese chicks who will mouth-swap the grossly veiny sausage-cocks of a couple Boston terriers, and somehow read the dogs' body language well enough that they know exactly when to take their mouth off the dog dick and let the beast blow all over their face. Maybe the first drop goes off in their mouth and they just scramble, I don't know. But still. That horse, those Boston terriers, they have an easier time getting hot women than me. An infinitely easier time. Because the likelihood that I will meet an attractive, available, interesting girl who is tolerant enough to let me fuck up once or twice by displaying maybe a millisecond of insecurity or flubbing one joke or making some crack about some ethnic group that she turns out to be weirdly sensitive about-- the likelihood of meeting one of them in my travels is exactly zero.

So: girls will suck off and fuck a horse on camera, and take its load over their face and tits, but I can't get laid.

Girls will blow dog cock, in a group setting, each one sucking multiple dog dicks and taking dog sperm all over their face, but I can't get laid.

Serial killers get marriage proposals in prison, but I can't get laid.

NuShawn Williams managed to impregnate like fifteen girls and give like 80 of them AIDS by promising to keep them in Hilfigers when he met them at the gas station, but I can't get laid.

Guys that just happen to live near chicks and have no job, just by virtue of being around the pussy during normal business hours when hot chicks are typically not working- those guys get laid. I, toiling in my office to lay down my future child's college fund, can't get laid.

The guy who wrings out the dish rag at the (REDACTED local bar) can get laid with my hot neighbor, even though he's married and won't leave his wife, and she found him naked in bed with yet another chick when she went to bring him coffee. But I can't get laid.

I mean: what the fuck.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

Diary 2/19/11: turning 35

Anyway.

Yeah, it's my birthday. I am thirty five years old. This feels like a momentous age for some reason. I am thinking like a woman, because, for an unmarried woman, this age is some kind of shitstorm where your last viable egg is now gone and you just have a 9/10th's empty gumball machine with only a couple Trig Palins left rattling around. But still, I am single. I am single with no plausible hope of not being single. I do not know even one person, out of the dozens and dozens of reasonably attractive women whom I know- I do not know even one person I would consider dating who would consider dating me.

And now I'm thirty five. So you figure, if I meet someone tomorrow, we hit it off, we get married after a year, we spend two years traveling and hanging out and somehow saving money, and then we have kids, that puts me at thirty fucking eight when my first child is born. And if I want to have more kids, I'll be into my forties. My ball sack will be full of Trig Palins. And this is assuming that I meet someone tomorrow, even though I have been trying, trying hard, to meet someone for ten fucking years. I have been doing everything. But ultimately I would have to completely reengineer my life to meet a woman and make it stick. I would have to put myself in a position where women are around me naturally. Because girls don't want you; they don't come looking for you; they don't even like it if you come looking for them. You have to be forced to be in a place and your presence there has to be in no way motivated by there being girls there and they have to slowly come to like you over time.

So I would have to get a new kind of career that does not demand that I work 11 hours a day around only ugly women and gays, and then go have drinks with some agent and then read five scripts at night and then get up early to go have breakfast with some studio executive. I would need to have one of those careers, but it would still have to be a "career"-type job. Because otherwise what am I going to use to pay for the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of care my autistic retarded nineteen-fingered child is going to need. You can't be a fucking barista playing bass on the side at thirty five. You better be wearing a suit and holding a briefcase full of serious fucking documents everywhere you go. My shit needs to have the nuclear fucking codes in it now. I'm thirty fucking five.

And you'd think, maybe all these people who you're going to drinks and breakfast with- perhaps there is a potential wife there, no? Someone who also has to read five scripts at the end of every night. Maybe you could kick back and have a brandy with this person and read scripts together under a nice cozy blanket. Except, unfortunately, "Hollywood hot" is the opposite of "L.A. hot." Any woman who is even- any woman who would not make your dick evaporate like holding an icicle next to a steel furnace is trying to be an actress. Any woman who is in my side of the profession- the lame, soul-crushing, barely creative hanger-on side, is chromosome damage ugly. Their dad must have met their mom when they were thirty five.