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Miranda Catches the Gay

2012-02-02T03:49:00.001+03:30

Cynthia Nixon recently said in the NY Times that she "chose" to be gay, which caused controversy and people freaking out and etc. To all of which Andrew Sullivan responds:

"My own view is that female sexuality is inherently more fluid than male sexuality, and that lesbians and bisexual women, because they are less fixated on crude physical signals for arousal, have more of a choice than men, gay or straight, in their choice of loved ones. I think this is about the difference between lesbian identity and gay male identity. For all the attempt to corral us into one vowel-free liberal conglomerate, I know few communities less alike than lesbians and gay men."

That is a beautiful and succinct way of putting it. Let me put it another way: my sexuality is tectonic plates miles thick and thousands of miles wide grinding away beneath the earth's crust on incomprehensibly powerful tides of magma, grinding and crushing and destroying and building up vast pressures sapped only momentarily by hellfire explosions and earth-shattering quakes that ruin civilizations and crush lives. Your sexuality, womankind, is a toy house made of toothpicks and gumdrops that you can disassemble and restructure on a whim. Your sexuality is as the mustard seed, small and unassuming but capable of flowering into something beautiful, delicate and complex under exactly the right circumstances. My sexuality is the fucking SUN.

Or maybe not. Seems to be more of a continuum with women. Some of them are raging fuckbeasts like myself and some of them are prim old dowager types trapped in the bodies of 23 year old actress/ waitresses. I think a good analogy for the variance in women's horniness is the variance in men's violent urges. You take a varying level of testosterone, possibly mix in being "socialized" in various different ways and you get a rainbow:

A few Dylan Klebold-type guys want to mass murder-- these are your rawdog in the bar bathroom every night/ gangbang a fraternity type chicks.

A few more guys like to go out and maybe beat some ass with a pool cue a couple nights a week. Or drive around in Denzel's car from TRAINING DAY tagging shit and doing drive by's. These are girls whom a dickhead would call "sluts."

Most guys, though, don't spend the day thinking about fighting but will throw fists if they're being threatened, or if they're drunk enough, or once in a while if they're just feeling crazy, etc. Just like most girls might go home with someone tall and confident and hot, or a guy in a band they just saw, or if they're just in the mood, but not all the time or with everyone.

And then there's a fringe of guys like me who would get their ass beat by a ten year old girl and are afraid of breaking a knuckle anyway. Guys who almost never feel the urge to fight. These are your Cynthia Nixons. Someone whose sexuality is mutable, because it's not really sexuality as a base, urgent desire. It's eating because you like the taste of food. This person knows what it means to be horny the way an earthworm knows the desire to find the perfect translation of Proust.

Obviously I'm talking out of my ass and have no fucking idea what goes through Cynthia Nixon's mind, or her stern, cold ginger pussy. But I think Sullivan's right-- you'd never hear a dude saying being gay (or straight) is a choice. I mean guys who are honest with themselves, not the pastor running a gay reeducation camp for Christ while secretly smoking pole. Or at least, I would never say being gay or straight is a choice, and I'm a dude, so-- all other dudes must think exactly like me.

OKCupid: Girls with no pictures part 2: the trollening

2012-01-26T05:10:00.001+03:30

I am being successfully trolled by a fake OKCupid account purporting to be a 21 year old local woman. I am aware that I am being trolled; that somewhere on my beloved Reddit or 4chan or some other message board a neckbeard in Saskatchewan is eagerly awaiting my showing up at some place with a security camera that he’s hacked into, ready to photoshop my face into foreveralone.jpg. Or it’s Chris Hansen. The girl is going to casually drop at some point in the conversation—a 15 email thread by now, which I would never tolerate except this troll is just so god damn motherfucking masterful—she is going to casually drop that she is actually 17 years old but her parents are gone for a long weekend now that Tahoe finally has snow and would I like to come over and bring a nice bottle of wine, her tastes are surprisingly sophisticated for such a young girl… I’m going to go and be told “have a seat” and after tearfully insisting that I was just there to warn her I’ll be told that I’m free to go only to be unceremoniously tackled to the sprinkler-muddy turf by a Whittier police sergeant built like Butterbean. They won’t have to ask me “if you’re here to warn her, why did you bring condoms?” Because of course I won’t be bringing fucking condoms. Fucking a 17 year old with a condom would be like looking at the Sistine Chapel through glass security block.

Or I’ll be murdered, or my credit card will be stolen, or my passport, or whatever. Though there is a certain comfort in being broke, knowing that you really have nothing to steal. And in being a sad unmarried loner. Because even if I were married, I would still try to set up a sexual liaison with this fake hot 21 year old girl, and in that version she could blackmail me by threatening to tell my wife, etc. There is a certain comfort in having nothing, knowing that outside of throwing me in jail or harvesting my organs, there is very little this person could do to harm me. When you have successfully fucked up your life like I have you are well nigh invulnerable.

Still. A person saw my long post about girls with no photograph, how it NEVER works out and you should NEVER email with that person, and she, having no photograph, successfully emailed me and got me to reply, and further baited me into asking for the photograph, which appears to in fact be an attractive 21 year old woman, does not match anything on Tineye, and might as well have been reverse engineered to appear maximally enticing and yet plausible to horny, lonely, aging dudes. I’m not talking about some stock photo off Ukrainianbrides.com with a chick washing a car in a bikini, it’s just a normal shot of a wholesomely-hot classically beautiful type chick taken with a webcam in a marginally revealing outfit that shows that she has nice tits.

I cannot resist this. For the same reason that Michael Vick’s dogs should not be adopted into homes with children, I should not be allowed to interact with women on the internet. In fact both of us should probably be summarily put down. You try to be civilized and to act rationally but there’s just that instinct, bred into you, and then beaten into you, and then the baby drops a toy or you see a nice pair of tits and suddenly it’s just a flash of black and you come to with something warm in your mouth and the room is splattered with baby guts. If there is a chance at attractive young pussy you have to go after it, no matter how absurd the whole situation is. The iron strength of the god damned human spirit is too strong and the audacity of hope is too great and the fucking retardedness of optimism is too immutable. Some awful primitive part of brain just has to go along with it and see what happens. Hey! Maybe you’ll get laid!

I can’t believe civilization was built by men. I can’t believe wars were fought and nations conquered and science was advanced and literature was… literatured and etc. I get the idea that guys were doing this to be in a position to get the most pussy but on the day-to-day level the getting of pussy is so god damned distracting, it’s a monomania—how could any man in history ever not stop whatever he was doing, put down the whip that he was cracking the slaves with to get them to build the pyramids—how could he not immediately put that down and let the slaves run free if there was even a one in a million chance at pussy out of the corner of his eye. Civilization must have been secretly built by the gays, who can just fuck and get it over with.

Anyway, I’m gonna keep talking to this chick and be robbed or embarrassed somehow. Stay tuned.

Miranda Catches the Gay

2012-01-26T05:08:00.001+03:30

Cynthia Nixon recently said in the NY Times that she “chose” to be gay, which caused controversy and people freaking out and etc. To all of which Andrew Sullivan responds:

“My own view is that female sexuality is inherently more fluid than male sexuality, and that lesbians and bisexual women, because they are less fixated on crude physical signals for arousal, have more of a choice than men, gay or straight, in their choice of loved ones. I think this is about the difference between lesbian identity and gay male identity. For all the attempt to corral us into one vowel-free liberal conglomerate, I know few communities less alike than lesbians and gay men.”

That is a beautiful and succinct way of putting it. Let me put it another way: my sexuality is tectonic plates miles thick and thousands of miles broad grinding away beneath the earth’s crust on incomprehensibly powerful tides of magma, grinding and crushing and destroying and building up vast pressures sapped only momentarily by hellfire explosions and earth-shattering quakes that ruin civilizations and crush lives. Your sexuality, womankind, is a toy house made of toothpicks and gumdrops that you can disassemble and restructure on a whim. Your sexuality is as the mustard seed, small and unassuming but capable of flowering into something beautiful, delicate and complex under exactly the right circumstances. My sexuality is the fucking SUN.

Or maybe not. Seems to be more of a continuum with women. Some of them are raging fuckbeasts like myself and some of them are prim old dowager types trapped in the bodies of 23 year old actress/ waitresses. I think a good analogy for the variance in women’s horniness is the variance in men’s violent urges. You take a varying level of testosterone, possibly mix in being “socialized” in various different ways and you get a rainbow:

A few Dylan Klebold-type guys want to mass murder– these are your rawdog in the bar bathroom every night/ gangbang a fraternity type chicks.

A few more guys like to go out and maybe beat some ass with a pool cue a couple nights a week. Or drive around in Denzel’s car from TRAINING DAY tagging shit and doing drive by’s. These are girls whom a dickhead would call “sluts.”

Most guys, though, don’t spend the day thinking about fighting but will throw fists if they’re being threatened, or if they’re drunk enough, or once in a while if they’re just feeling crazy, etc. Just like most girls might go home with someone tall and confident and hot, or a guy in a band they just saw, or if they’re just in the mood, but not all the time or with everyone.

And then there’s a fringe of guys like me who would get their ass beat by a ten year old girl and are afraid of breaking a knuckle anyway. Guys who almost never feel the urge to fight. These are your Cynthia Nixons. Someone whose sexuality is mutable, because it’s not really sexuality as a base, urgent desire. It’s eating because you like the taste of food. This person knows what it means to be horny the way an earthworm knows the desire to find the perfect translation of Proust.

Obviously I’m talking out of my ass and have no fucking idea what goes through Cynthia Nixon’s mind, or her stern, cold ginger pussy. But I think Sullivan’s right– you’d never hear a dude saying being gay (or straight) is a choice. I mean guys who are honest with themselves, not the pastor running a gay reeducation camp for Christ while secretly smoking pole. Or at least, I would never say being gay or straight is a choice, and I’m a dude, so– all other dudes must think exactly like me.

OKCupid: Girls with no pictures

2012-01-26T05:06:00.001+03:30

You got two options: she’s either never going to give you the picture, or she’s going to be ugly. That’s it. And yet I bite, every single fucking time. I get a message from a girl who is pixellated out or black bar over the face or simply, you know, an Ansel Adams photograph or some shit and I bite every time. Because I have to know.

And no matter how many times—it’s either nothing, or ugly, every single fucking time—I still can’t just trust myself and internalize the fucking rule. I can’t take a second and reason with myself. Like, anyone who doesn’t list their body type– do you think they have a spectacular fit body? A guy who doesn’t list his height- do you think he’s dunking on (I cannot name a single defensive NBA player)? Do you think a dude who doesn’t list his income is hiding Mitt Romney levels of untaxed capital gains in the Caymans and that’s why it’s gotta be a secret? No. No. If someone is not explicit about a piece of information on OKC it is because whatever quality they’re hiding is a liability to the point of freakishness.

But I message back, every time. And I engage in the fucking cat and mouse game of teasing out their facebook or giving them my personal email with my full real name every fucking time, and it either just goes away because the girl chickens out, or despite her promise that “I am attractive I swear” it’s a sad ugly picture and you have to—I mean, you can’t go out with her, obviously, so, you either have to not message her back despite having clearly been intrigued by her personality, which is basically just cruelly screaming “YOU ARE FUCKING UGLY AND DIE” at a sensitive shy human being. Or you have to fake still being interested and let it slowly dwindle to nothing over an elaborately staged blowoff of “oh shit I just realized I have a work thing that night” and etc. You have to become a chick.

I message them back because of the perversity of hope. The ridiculous idea that it might be someone cute and maybe they are just so hot that they got tired of 15,000 unsolicited messages, or maybe they really are afraid of being recognized, or—whatever. The same reason people pick up used scratch tickets in the parking lot of 7-11. The same reason I still go to a bar because there might be girls there even though I’ve been to bars ten thousand times and have met girls there about twice. Your sad desperate mind will not let hope die.

So listen, even if I won’t listen to myself: someone without a picture messaging you is NEVER going to work out, it is ALWAYS going to be a waste of time and an embarrassment.

Frankly, it’s the same shit with girls that won’t give you their phone number and want to set dates over OKC message, girls who are at all hesitant to give up shit that might lead you to google them, etc. It never works out. And it’s because the type of person who is afraid to reveal themselves is the type of person who is too chickenshit to date on the internet to begin with. They are going into it with too many fears and doubts and too much post-traumatic and/or self-flattering paranoid chick shit and are just never going to let loose and have a good time. And nothing against them, maybe they were raped or something. Maybe they have a perfectly good reason. But still. Fuck ‘em.

To my future son, part 3

2012-01-26T05:05:00.000+03:30

The feeling of being in love with someone who loves you back is literally unattainable. Because the very fact of being in love with someone makes them not love you. Your choices are:

A) Unrequited love

or

B) Cool apathy that gets you the person you thought you wanted, but because of the apathy necessary to get them, you don’t want them anymore.

That’s it. There is no other option. One party will always have contempt for the other. Your choice is to be the contemptuous or the contemptible. You don’t want either one? Too bad. I don’t want Sudanese kids getting kidnapped and enslaved but them’s the fucking breaks. Whatever you feel, that you think will bring you joy, will only work against you. Until you DIE. From BEES. BEES with AIDS.

L.A. to Require Condoms in Porn

2012-01-20T04:52:00.000+03:30

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2012/01/la-approves-condom-rule.html

The TL,DR is that the AIDS Healthcare Foundation and other worrywart types have been trying to get condoms mandated in porn for years. After various failed tactics, they went for a city council ordinance, which covers the San Fernando Valley. The epicenter of American porn production. The idea is that no politician anywhere, ever, can vote for being slack on any kind of fucking-related business without having their career incinerated so except for the one brave soul who voted nay, they all had to go along with it.

And now there are going to be surprise inspections where regulators show up to porn sets and look at the dick going in the vagina, or butthole, and make sure there's a condom on it. Which for me, only cements my decision to never watch porn made domestically by a major studio again, ever.

Frankly, I’m stunned that there even is a porn “industry” anymore. Who fucking watches American porn now? Who still watches fake tits, and even if it isn't cartoonishly fake tits it's obvious weaves, it's not-even-trying huge fake eyelashes, it's spray-on tans and artificially bleached gaping assholes and hideous back tattoos from the tat shop’s big stupid trapper keeper of generic drunk Scottsdale Arizona chick art, and rhinestone navel piercings and chicks naked except for lucite heels or some other impractical shoe. And dudes with shaved heads and goatees and steroidally-shrunken waxed nut sacks that call to mind the image of changing a male baby. Which nut sacks these pornographers, despite having had decades to advance in the arts of storyboarding and editing and general production value, still in these porns, at least half the time there is a petal-pink scrotal sac unwrinkling right in the exact place an eye would naturally focus in the frame. They just can't resist that from-behind missionary shot with a flexing man-ass eclipsing anything you might want to see. And the women never act convincingly; they are always floridly screaming and talking dirty and getting spat on and begging for a load on their tits or whatever, which no woman, once, ever in history has done for any reason except second-guessing what her douchebag boyfriend might like.

Anyway, so-called "mainstream" porn is a disgusting cockshrinking self-parody, and "alt" porn is always, just, such a gross exaggeration of the alleged fetish. Like, if you want to see a guy cum in a girl, a natural act that people have enjoyed for thousands of years, it has to be her theatrically yelling "cum in my pussy you fucker" and then he pulls out so just the barest tip of his wang is still in so the most possible jizz will graphically ooze out, which she then squeezes into a martini glass on top of a plexiglass coffee table so you can film it from underneath, and then drinks the jizz out of the martini glass-- I mean, fuck, man. I can't believe the Los Angeles area porn industry hasn't already collapsed as a result of the crappy fucking porn they put out. I would sooner fuck my own girlfriend than jack off to this stuff.

And further, I can’t believe it is not known to all sentient human beings that every porn video ever made is available free on dozens of sites in convenient clips that are the exact length it takes you to bust a nut. And that this democratization of porn has yielded a new golden age where eighteen year old girls from Russia are videotaped fucking attractive guys their own age who look like bass players in Echo Park indie bands . And they are not histrionically screaming SHIT IN MY PUSSY AND KICK ME IN THE TITS NI**ER; they are instead making inchoate mews of pleasure at a plausible pace and volume, just like girls who fuck you in real life. And the guys are skinny and have messy hair and aside from their huge uncut wangs they resemble the type of person you think your attractive but slightly out of your league waitress might actually have unprotected sex with-- a guy in a band that won't go anywhere but he will probably settle into a marginally creative job after his dreams play out and have a normal, productive life. And the guys either give the girls a natural-seeming deeply injected creampie or sheepishly cum on their belly or ass, just like in real life.

But anyway- condoms in porn. No fucking way, ever, for even one second, obviously. I have never once jerked off to the thought of fucking a girl with a condom, and this is over thousands and thousands of lifetime jerks to every other conceivable sexual scenario on the planet. Maybe to a condom BREAKING in a chick and giving her the grievous unwanted creampie, but that's it. You can have a condom in a porn if it breaks and she cries. Otherwise, if I see even one INSTANT of condom I am "changing the channel" like my own grandmother popped up taking it in the ass from Lexington Steele. Of course my lack of patronage has no net effect on the LA porn industry because I never watch their porn to begin with, and if I did I wouldn't pay for it. But now no one else is gonna watch that shit either. No one likes condoms. I'd rather personally die of AIDS a thousand times over than have to jerk off to condom porn even once.

Plus, look-- the fact that the porn industry has existed for decades and like four people in it have died of AIDS is the most massively successful health care initiative in human history. More porn stars have probably died from tiger attacks than from AIDS. From asteroids.

So, the hell with this ridiculous shit. It’ll just push the industry out of LA ; they’ll go somewhere else and continue having unprotected sex and not getting AIDS, ever. And there will be 500 abandoned warehouses in Chatsworth now that will get taken over by ROAD WARRIOR type gangs that will rape you and your family and give you AIDS. That’s what’s gonna happen. You read it here first.

Diary 9/7/11: Gas Powered Leaf Blower

2011-10-24T02:04:00.003+03:30

A fucking gas powered leaf blower going. Which is illegal,right? Gas powered leaf blowers are banned. But I have never seen a leaf blower operating without the sound of a fucking outboard motor blasting. The ban on gas powered leaf blowers has had absolutely zero effect. What did they do-- was there some amnesty where you could turn in your gas powered leaf blower in exchange for a toy or something? For an electric powered leaf blower? I've never once seen anybody using an electric powered leaf blower.

Still, the fucking gas powered leaf blower. Accelerating now. Crescendoing. And then diminuendoing, murmuring almost, then roaring again as its operator discovers a new patch of leaves. What the fuck does the gas powered leaf blower do? How is this a more suitable tool for cleaning up the approximately 30 leaves that accumulate in front of an apartment building in Studio City, where the flora consists almost entirely of evergreen or tropical trees? Why, in the area I am from in New England, where there is a legitimate problem with the enormous mountains of leaves dropped annually by oaks, birches, maples, etc.-- why in that place where there are genuinely a shitload of autumn leaves to deal with, do you never hear a gas powered leaf blower? People go out with a rake and rake their leaves into piles. Kids jump in them.

I think it's because a gas powered leaf blower, or really, a leaf blower operating under any sort of power, is an essentially useless piece of make-work that only blows the leaves onto some neighboring property where they will have to be blown off with another gas powered leaf blower, etc., forever. So a gas powered leaf blower only works if you have no real problem with leaves to begin with. If the leaves don't really need to go anywhere, and it doesn't really cost you anything, there's a whole underclass of illegal immigrants willing to strap on this loud fume-blasting arm cannon and walk around blowing leaves three feet off their original location, and that's just what's done here. You just hire Mexicans to do things, they bring a bunch of big serious-looking tools, and you feel like they've been of some use. Back East where you don't have a secret caste of slaves and there are actually a fuckton of leaves, you must dispose of them yourself and use the actually appropriate tool, a rake.

In rich neighborhoods in California there is a constant roar of gas powered power tools being operated by Aztec-looking illegals. Every tree on every fucking rich man's block is constantly being sheared, and chainsawed, and otherwise attended to. The only cars that are parked outside Hollywood Hills homes during the day are '86 Mazda pickups with big illegal pipe-cages welded on the back, filled with branches or 2x 4's. And seriously nowhere-- nowhere in this town will you go 15 minutes without hearing a sound like an old outboard motor, or an Ent getting thrown screaming into Saruman's lumber mill. The amount of landscaping that goes on in Los Angeles is ridiculous-- for a desert. We live in a desert. Our native plants are dry queasy herbs and gnarled chaparral bushes that grow point oh one millimeters per year and have roots that stretch five thousand miles below the Earth and are three thousand years old. Aside from just watering the shit, there shouldn't really be anything to be done, because every other plant should just fucking die basically. But still. Even on my humble street there is never not at least one illegal landscaping business truck parked out in the street and a guy with no health or liability insurance hanging off a high branch with a long claw-shaped saw at the end of a catchpole, hacking off branches so some other, more desirable branch might live. So that the tree might not just be left alone. So that one's neighbors might not be undisturbed by loud gutteral machines screeching and roaring and whining like a dirt bike making constant laps in your driveway.

OK, fuckstick: how about YOU make ME laugh

2011-10-22T22:16:00.001+03:30

Because we all know you like to be made to laugh; you’ve told us, over and over and over again. Collectively you have said “live laugh love” or "make me laugh” a thousand million billion times. Or you’ve put up the whorish-sounding “make me laugh and you can make me do anything." Make me laugh and you can sneak it in my ass, is that what this means? Make me laugh and you can jerk off in my mouth while watching porn? Make me laugh and I will fuck guys off craigslist and bring you back the money? I mean, I shouldn’t complain about this-- I am not a professional comedian, but I consider myself funny. And girls do in fact “do anything,” although the “anything” that I’m asking for is just to fuck me in the most vanilla manner imaginable. I don’t require that they cook me a meal or take me on a date or engage me intellectually or anything, and they certainly haven’t offered. Make me laugh and you can make me do anything. That pretty much spells it out-- you bring the personality, I’ll bring the pussy.

And frankly not much else. I know this is sexist and has been done to death, but why are girls so fucking unfunny if they like funniness so much? It’s like fat guys who are really into televised sports. If you consider this activity to be the greatest thing in the world, why don’t you go out in the park and toss a fucking football around once in a while? If this thing brings you so much pleasure, why aren’t you interested in creating some of it yourself? Why do you have to be a completely passive participant? Don’t you want-- like, even if you just selfishly want to be made to laugh without having to contribute, don’t you understand that being at least marginally funny or fast on your feet will help the person whose job it is to actually be funny to get out of his wheelhouse and create fresher, funnier material for you to laugh at as a precondition for fucking? Don’t you see the guys getting bored telling you their canned pussy-getting funny story for the ten thousandth time? Don’t you want to help the poor bastards out?

Diary 10/16/11: Occupy LA Part 2

2011-10-21T01:33:00.000+03:30

I went down to Occupy Wall Street yesterday. Occupy LA, rather, in front of City Hall. I wanted to see what it was about, what people were actually protesting, what they actually wanted. Also, I figured there would be girls there.

The talk on the internet seems to be that OK, it is understandable that people are pissed off about "the way things are right now," but the "movement" has no concrete goals and really stands for nothing besides inchoate frustration. And so while it's growing, while it's spreading worldwide, while cops are cracking heads in Zuccotti Park and Carbanieri vans are on fire in Rome, until this "movement" gets its shit together and actually asks for something it'll all be for nothing.

From what I saw at occupy LA this is entirely accurate. First, I was a little disappointed that it is in fact a peaceful, organized protest. There was a march right before I got there, which seems to have gone smoothly and in an orderly fashion. There is a tent city around City Hall that is completely confined to the grass with fastidious volunteers appearing out of nowhere every five minutes to pick up cigarette butts. Protestors happily stayed contained in the few streets that the city had conscientiously blocked off to keep shit from getting out of hand, and gathered around a stage and PA system that seems to have been set up with all the appropriate permits. There was an adequate amount of Port-o-sans. The few cops visible were the LAPD's bike-bound squad of "courtesy officers," or whateverthefuck they're called. They wear purple shirts that make them look like the world's most militant kickball team. They kept to themselves, returned eye contact and smiled when smiled at. This is different, I gather, from New York, where the NYPD is crushing people's femurs and throwing haymakers at nancy-boy college kids. As is their wont.

I wonder if this comes down to the difference between the city's mayors. Bloomberg is a billionaire businessman who made his business billions off a proprietary information network for other businessmen to get tips about business. A paper pusher for paper pushers. The ultimate meta-captain of non-industry; basically a glad-handing blue suit stuffed with hundred dollar bills. Of course he wants to just get the freeloaders off the lawn. He doesn't strike one as the head cracking type, but if it gets in the way of money, that’s what needs to be done. Also all his cigarette-banning shit and no bicycles on the grass, etc., shows a totalitarian instinct. Villaraigosa is an unprincipled intellectually bankrupt game show host, but at least on the surface he stands for unions and immigrants and that type of Old Left shit, so it makes sense that his instinct is to peacefully let the hippies camp out outside his office.

Anyway. My shameful urge to see cops punched and tear gas going off was not slaked, and the protest was exactly what I expected it to be. The protestors stood for exactly nothing, or at least collectively they stood for nothing; individually there were countless micro-agendas that people had brought in in an attempt to glom on to the movement. Lyndon LaRouche disciples authouritatively screaming at people. Medical marijuana advocates. Anti-human trafficking activists. An Indigenous Peoples Committee with actual daguerrotype-looking Native Americans involved. There was a big banner about chemtrails, which is what people call visible jet exhaust that they think is the government dropping chemicals from the sky to sterilize blacks or cause autism or something.

And they had bands, and speakers. The speakers were middle aged Chicano Studies professors offering the exact reheated Trotskyist boilerplate you would expect, which the young people were politely supportive of even if they seemed a bit bored. The only people who seemed genuinely excited were the old people. The old hippies, who looked delighted to be pulled down from the attic and dusted off for some old-fashioned agitation. I’d seen plenty of these types up in Santa Cruz and our LA hippies were exactly the same; focused on Dick Cheney and the wars but now trying to tie this stuff into the issue of money.

I ran into a girl, someone I'd been on one date with off OKCupid and never called again. Despite this she was happy to see me and introduced me to her friend, who was, judging by her hairstyle, a true believer. The OKC girl was cute, way hotter than I remembered, and I had to go back and kick my past self in the ass for not getting a second date and sealing the deal. What was I thinking?

They asked me for my thoughts on the protest and I started to tell them the truth, that while I felt I stood for whatever vague principle they were having trouble articulating, that at least in LA this is a nebulous jerkoff that will ultimately amount to nothing. I brought up the chemtrails banner-- shit like this is what gets legitimate movements dismissed as nuts. I was doing well, seeming smart about politics with a little humor thrown in; I was on my way to recovering from my earlier blowoff and earning my way back into the hot girl's panties. I would text her later to say "cool to see you at the protest” and casually ask her out for a drink, and the ass would be mine. But then her friend was like "well, you know there is something to that chemtrails stuff."

What do you do in this situation? There is nothing to this chemtrails stuff; only a retarded idiot could possibly believe in this type of thing even for an instant. I had an urge to bite her head off and yell at her for even suggesting that such a thing might hold water.

But I opted for the pussy. I shrugged it off and said nothing. I took a bus back home and texted the OKC girl and then jerked off to her facebook photos. We'll see if she gets back to me.

Diary 10/15/11: Occupy LA

2011-10-21T01:32:00.001+03:30

Thinking about going down to Occupy LA today. Not that I give a shit. Or rather, not that I think it is a meaningful movement with any concrete goals. And if they did have concrete goals, they would be impossible to achieve.

Not that I'm against them either—while the “I am the 99 per cent” people complaining about student loans seem dopey to me, far worse is this “I am the 53 per cent (of legitimate income tax payers)” canard; the people holding up signs that say I bootstrapped my way to the bottom attending a state school while working 30 hours a week at a minimum wage job and never having an instant of freedom, now I will buy a shitty house in Phoenix and have kids who will also have to work 30 hours a week getting yelled at by some undereducated jerkoff because they didn't adequately mop down the little channel between the beef and chicken grills at Arby's -- congratulations, you're a fucking idiot. I wasted my youth grinding myself down to the bone in the most debasing manner possible and now I insist that people with billions of dollars be able to contribute nothing, is what you're saying.

So I'm not going down there to yell at them or argue with them. Like most people, I am going down there because I think there will be young pretty girls in revealing outfits. I won't talk to them, because they need a guy who sings for a band about communism or something, but you reach a certain age and just looking at a nineteen year old's barely clothed tits and ass is enough.

And you know, it does suck to have just got out of college right when the price of education reached a high water mark; it cost you a quarter million fucking dollars to go to school for four years, and you got out at the exact moment when the job-getting value of all this education became utterly meaningless. Or, for certain "desirable" white collar professions this fancy education is necessary, but it is no longer even close to sufficient. You have graduated to a snowball's chance in hell of being able to work in any kind of meaningfully air-conditioned environment. And in fact this fancy education now works against you at the kind of it-sucks-but-at-least-allows-basic-life-sustaining-expenses kind of gig that might be available-- management at these places thinks you will get bored and move on; they don't want to waste the time and money training you. And they're right, you would move on. Except there won't be any place to move to for at least a decade. The shortsightedness of these HR professionals for shitty jobs is that they fail to see that the guy out of Berkeley is going to have nowhere to go for ten years, and hell yes you want him telemarketing.

It's funny, the 53 per cent movement seems dedicated to painting the 99 per cent movement as rich, elitist snobs. Overeducated, over-worldy layabouts. They are saying "we are even poorer than you, and we are proud of it." Not necessarily monetarily poorer but somehow culturally poorer-- we are the real blue collar bedrock of this country and blah blah blah, and so stop complaining, you lazy rich people. Stop complaining and let the really rich people keep their money.

I mean, what the 99 per cent movement wants, at least the college kids, certainly is some kind of socialist, redistributive shit to happen. In their bones, that's what they want. Give us money. They want a jubilee. A forgiveness of debt. I don't know why they have to be so cagey about it, and couch it in demands for nitpicking banking reforms-- we all know that's bullshit. They want money. They should come out and say it. French people aren’t chickenshit about this type of thing-- we want the government to give us money. And good! Fucking give it to them.

Premature Ejaculation

2011-10-07T03:50:00.000+03:30

Michel Houellebecq once said "there are two stages in a mans' life: the first where he comes too fast, and the second when he can't get hard anymore."

This is close to the truth, but the reality is more like you are constantly in one or the other stage at all phases in your life. I am thirty five and a half years old and I STILL feel like I'm going to blow the second I get in the pussy. Or I'm too drunk and I can't get wood at all; you have to come out and tell the chick she has to suck you off to get you hard and this is not a proposition that your average first date off OKCupid smiles on, you know. Sucking off some drunk's musty whiskey dick. Really the only way you're going to get laid on the first date, unless you really have a live one on your hands, is to masterfully eat her pussy for a good five minutes and then just vault up on top of her and put your dick in smoothly. Any break in the action is going to kill it.

I used to look forward to my old age when I would put my dick in a girl and give her a good finesse-ful fucking for the exact right amount of time for her to cum, and me to cum shortly thereafter or simultaneously. I knew in my youth that there was an age when you couldn't get wood or get off anymore, and that as a young man it was natural to have to concentrate really fucking hard on pictures of hideous mutilated corpses to not pop off, or to pin down the girl's hips to keep her from moving because even the slightest suggestion of a shimmy from her would make me cum. But I figured that somewhere, between these two extremes, I would hit a sweet spot where I could still get a boner but simply being inside a pussy for a half second wouldn't make it puke. I figured that time would be right about now. But no.

Or actually, there is a sweet spot, but it's a sweet spot in terms of your relationship with the girl. When I am fucking a girl for the first time, I am excited by seeing a new naked body, tasting a new pussy-- and when you fuck a girl for the first time you have had to do so much foreplay to even get there that your jizz is at three thousand atmospheric pressures, you know. I always end up warning them that I'm gonna cum too fast, stopping them from moving for thirty seconds while I'm holding my breath, pulling my dick out suddenly and hoping that the sensation of merely pulling out of the pussy isn't enough to make me cum. That I won't have to vainly try to clench in a pleasureless orgasm with my fist. So that's the first time. Maybe the second time.

But like, the third through eighth time you have sex with a girl, you are used to the idea of fucking her a little but it's still novel enough that you really want to. You know her physical being well enough, her smells, etc., that you can have holodeck-like jack sessions where every detail is perfect. And when you fuck her, you are still excited, but you have calmed down enough that you can actually try to get off; you can accelerate rather than decelerate your own pleasure. You can actualy enjoy yourself.

After that, it becomes a relationship, and you don't give a shit about fucking her anymore. You fuck her as a favor. It takes you so long to get off that you wish you could fake it. Your dick gets about 80 per cent hard and flops around in the pussy, and she doesn't get excited and doesn't tighten up, and so you get even less hard, and she gets even more floppy, and who gives a shit. In relationships, I will look for any excuse not to fuck. Because after a certain amount of time a girl feels unclean to me, in the kosher sense. She feels haram. She is not meant to be fucked-- only new pussy is meant to be fucked. This is with every girl I've ever dated, except my very first girlfriend, whom I loved desperately, and who broke my heart. Either she ruined me, or it's like this for everybody.

But in your youth you think you're going to get to the point in age and expertise where it's always like that third through eighth time, and you never do. You can get to the point where you can get through that first wave of i'm-gonna-cum-too-fast, but this just leaves you on this long plateau of able to keep a boner but no crescendo in sensation. If you can stem yourself from cumming too fast at first, you end up in this forty five minute fuck marathon where you have to resort to porn positions and jackhammering to get enough feeling to bust. It becomes rote and mechanical. What you want is for you both to be building to something together, and you just--- you have five times to do that. Otherwise you can't.

I wonder why i care so much about lasting past thirty seconds with one night stands. I wonder why -- it's not that I picture them snickering about me and mocking me, you know. I don't give a shit what they think of me. It really is wantingt to give them a good fuck. Unfortunately, it's god damn impossible.

Diary 10/6/11- This American Life

2011-10-07T03:28:00.000+03:30

Good morning. The fucking car is breaking. Now it starts overheating the same day you put water in. I should just fix it, but that requires money. I should pay my bills, but that requires money. I should get my car registered properly, but that requires some lengthy process because while I’ve already payed for it, somehow the insurance wasn’t payed up at that time, which requires money, and so, the fucking registration didn’t stick, so I got a ticket, which requires money. And now I have to park on the (REDACTED STUDIO NAME) lot in their impossible parking structure, which requires time. How are they even checking expired registrations? It’s not like the thing was from fucking 1978, it says 2010. Fucking DMV. Requires money. Requires money. Requires money.

And I don’t have any fucking money. And I don’t have any fucking time, because I have to work eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day, leaving the two to three hours that aren’t consumed by work, commute, or basic life sustaining activities-- leaving those hours useless and passive due to emotional exhaustion. I just drink them away. If I don’t drink, I just sit there grinding my jaw and muttering to myself and fighting with my inner demons.

I work to earn not quite enough money to sustain the car, phone, apartment, insurance, computer, and food that allow me to continue get up every morning and work for eleven miserable hours per day. I earn ALMOST enough to cover these basic daily expenses that allow me to work to pay for them but once in a while you have a thing like the car needing a repair which takes a couple hundred bucks off the kitty; this gets added on to my credit card debt which is now gigantic enough to insure that if I ever stop working for even one day I am completely fucked.

How did this happen? How the fuck am I so broke? I mean, frankly, the answer is drinking, which I do to distract myself from the misery of working for a few scant hours so I don’t find myself shopping for a shotgun with a big enough trigger guard that my toe could fit in it. I spend money going out and drinking, taking girls on dates. To get laid, so I can feel good for forty five minutes when I wake up in the morning having gotten some new ass. To feel that I have some sense of purpose in this world besides getting up and working for eleven god damn motherfucking hours every day, I spend money that I don’t have, requiring me to work eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day.

This would all be different if I worked with hot chicks. If there were a reason to feel anything but dread at the prospect of going in there in the morning. If I could look down the crack of some twenty four year old girl’s blouse and see half a snow-white tit once in a while, somehow this lifestyle would be manageable. Or if there were some element of actual fun to work, if work actually produced tangible results that I could be proud of. If we actually made something. Instead it’s covering your ass, competing with ten thousand other people just like us over ideas, writers, projects—competing with ten thousand other people just like me except they have no hobbies or desires besides work work work and so they beat me every time. The work is all for nothing. Or if it ends up being for something, it will be stupid. Or it will fall apart at the last minute. There are no low hanging fruit in this world and it’s just slavering type A ivy league kids fighting each other at knifepoint over scraps. The world of white collar “creative” jobs has become the fucking Road Warrior universe and the last two viable ideas in Hollywood are fifty five gallon drums of gas guarded by a guy with hockey pads and a pink Mohawk whose dad runs a studio.

And when it isn’t work, it’s bills, it’s fix the car, it’s clean the house. You can’t spend eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day being someone else’s factotum and then be expected to devote further energy and time diving into the immense mountain of little pains in the ass required to stay afloat in modern society. You gotta pay the gas, you gotta pay the electric; they changed the payment system and they won’t take debit cards and now you gotta sit on hold waiting for an operator to tell you to call a different department where you gotta sit on hold, and please listen carefully as our service options have changed to serve you better-- this means you and everybody else got real good at pressing three two one one three to get to a person to give you support in this matter, before that you all got too good at pressing zero immediately, and then at pressing nine real quickly when we took away the option to press zero. Now we had to change our service options again because you fucking monkeys figured out too quick how to speak to a human being; now you need to listen to and select from ten to the fifteenth power amount of options and if you press an invalid selection we're gonna just hang up on you. And this is because it’s too expensive for you to be on for forty five seconds with the guy we’re paying sixty six cents an hour in India.

And the ATM fee from the cash you pulled out at the liquor store to buy a half pint of cheap brandy to take the pain from an eight down to a four kicked you down to sub zero balance on the debit card because unbeknownst to you match.com is still charging you sixty nine ninety nine every three months for a service you haven’t used in three years and that dings a hundred bucks out of your credit card that they charge you immediate twenty dollars interest on, and etc. etc. etc.

I would complain more, but now I gotta go to work. Whatever. At least I’m not fat.

The Value of Work

2011-10-07T03:27:00.000+03:30

When I was fourteen my mom made me get a job. She was really hell bent on this, as soon as you can start working legally, you start working. I don’t mean to make her sound mean—this was perfectly normal. I imagine someone had made her start working the literal second it was legal as well. On the east coast, at least 20 years ago, there wasn’t an underclass of immigrants doing all the gigs that teenagers could do. You’re fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, you get a job. I wish it were like that out here; you’d see more fourteen year old girls working retail.

Anyway, she made me get a job. And again, not to be mean, and not to make me give her the money or pay rent to live in my own childhood home or any shit like that-- I got to keep the money. But just to teach me some lesson about the value of work. Or some other, more jaded lesson. Something about how all work sucks and is useless and horrible and the value that you actually get out of your labor isn’t shit compared to what some rich property owning guy makes, some guy who ninety nine times out of one hundred inherited some position in society where it would be easy to have these things. To own a McDonald’s franchise or whatever.

So my first gig was working on a cranberry farm. Not a bad gig at all, considering, it was for some family friends who were perfectly nice. I was working with the farmer’s daughter and the other girl who carpooled with us to school, in these cranberry bogs. For those of you who don’t know how the cranberry comes to your table or juice pak or whatever—it’s a swamp-dwelling fruit, a crawling vine that grows in cold, moist sand. It’s emblematic of southeastern Massachusetts, I think, because it’s a scrubby, twisty little vine that scratches out a bare existence in the miserly, unyielding, cold sand. Sand lashed by salt water, peppered with rocks. It crouches in frigid swamps, and yields a berry so hard and bitter that if you actually ate it it would hurt you. It would damage your digestive tract. And this is the only fruit that grows in any numbers in the area. In order to make it palatable you have to pump it with sugar, which of course, Puritan settlers did not have. They sweetened their food with pine cones or something. Sugar would probably have been viewed as satanic somehow. But anyway, this was the fruit they had, and they must have seen it as fitting. Eating this fruit is a punishment.

My job was to walk around in these giant man-made swamps and pull out rock maple saplings. Little eight inch high trees with a tap root that went all the way to the fucking Earth’s core, and if you didn’t extract every inch of tap root, the tree would immediately string back stronger than before. It’s weird, to be—to be killing trees, for one thing, when every public service announcement, every park ranger on a field trip, is telling you trees are a precious fragile resource and hey little boys and girls, we must be stewards of the forest and etc., and then your first job is getting paid four dollars an hour to walk around ripping up trees. And it’s weird to be, like—you leave one millimeter of tap root in the ground, and this fucking tree will be back in full form tomorrow. I am fucking impressed by that. I feel bad killing this organism that is so fucking resilient and badass.

But the thing that JUST occurred to me is that this swamp maple that I was going around killing is the same fucking tree that produces maple syrup. The only non-bee-infested source of sugar in the American northeast. If people, starting with colonials, had simply left the fucking swamp alone, they could have had huge stands of natural, impossible to fuck up trees that required NO EFFORT to grow and produced sweet delicious sugar. Instead, there are hundreds of years of backbreaking labor going into coddling a hard, bitter, inedible fruit. This is the true value of work-- generally, if you just leave things alone, things will end up pretty much OK and nature will take care of it. But if you throw in hundreds of years of human ingenuity, effort, and exploitation of one’s fellow man, you can get it so that you have something that is much worse than before.

R.I.P. Arch West: Inventor of Doritos

2011-09-28T22:46:00.000+03:30

The last bag of Doritos I ate before the death of Arch West were the best I’ve ever tasted. We were up in the mountains, me and my fake girlfriend. Smoggy and hot in the city but up in the Sierras it was cool, clear day, and we stopped at the Native American Cultural Center to check out some artifacts—longbows and shit made from pelts. It was a welcome relief from a tough week, and the two stoned Mexican guys running the federally funded shack and posing as Native Americans had a cooler of soda and basket of various chips for sale. We chose original flavor Doritos and a Coke. The classic American snack.

Something about the mountain air, the rigors of the wilderness; something about the long grueling week-- the experience of eating those fucking Doritos was magnified. I could taste freshly harvested corn pulled from a heartland field in the dawn. Chilis hand dried in an adobe marketplace by a Toltec woman with hard, withered fingers. Salt delicately culled from the nurturing bosom of the sea. These Doritos tasted like life, seriously.

It brought to mind how about every three months for the past several years I've thought, apropos of nothing: who is the guy who invented Doritos? This man will get no Nobel Prize, but what he gave the world brought more joy than virtually anybody. In retrospect, I might have known that the universe was giving me a chance to truly taste the man's masterpiece before he passed to the great beyond.

Arch West, the inventor of Doritos, died last Tuesday at the age of 97. West was a marketing exec for Frito Corp. (soon to become Frito–Lay after a merger), and on a trip to California, sampled some tortilla chips for the first time from a snack stand by the beach. This was in the sixties. Mind you, tortilla chips themselves hadn’t been invented until 1944, so, the idea hadn’t really spread around, and West, according to lore, instantly knew he was onto something. He took his idea of a spicy version of the crisp fried corn chips to the higher ups at Frito Corp, and they laughed at him. They laughed.

So West invested some of his own money into developing the chip, presumably bested further hurdles in an inspiring manner, and brought Doritos to the world. Fucking Doritos. He was a marketing guy, too—it wasn’t even his job to sit around a test kitchen frying big batches of corn batter ad infinitum until some catchy new snack was created by accident. He was “outside the box,” going above and beyond the call of duty; when he found something genius, he believed in himself and fucking saw it through.

And we got Doritos. Doritos! Remember, children of the eighties—for our whole lives there was one Dorito, now known as Zesty Nacho Cheese or “Nacho Cheesier” or some whored-up shit but back then known simply as “Doritos.” And then in like 1985 Cool Ranch came out and it was fucking Martin Luther nailing his proclamations to the church door. A shattering of worlds. Because as delicious as the Ur-Doritos had been, these Cool Ranch Doritos were, to a child’s palette, even more delicious. Now the Doritos family has splintered into a thousand different flavors; Doritos is the mockingbird of fried corn snacks, mimicking the flavors of every fatty food, cross-branding with Pizza Hut, dolled up as burgers, burritos, guacamole, hot sauce. Most of them aren’t worth shit. Arch West tasted every flavor of Doritos before he died—weeks before his death, in decrepitude at ninety seven years of age, he was given a Rip Roarin’ Cheezeburger flavor or something to try and he spat them out. I like to think that he shed a tear at how his brainchild had been profaned. I like to think he impaled the kneeling Frito-Lay messenger with a spear, sent his head back to corporate as a warning.

But the bigger point here is-- Arch West invented fucking Doritos, and this is a greater contribution to our lives than James Joyce. Bigger than like, Luciano Pavarotti-- if Pavarotti hadn’t sung those songs some other fat guy would’ve. Arch West made a bigger contribution to the life of the world than all but maybe five U.S. presidents. Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson-- and him, more for his accomplishments outside of office than in-- Franklin Roosevelt, and maybe Truman ‘cuz he dropped the bomb. That’s it. Fucking Warren G. Harding didn’t do shit compared to the invention of Doritos. Most presidents are simply place holders, kept in check by congress by design and vainly making noise about making big changes when in fact their job is to just check the country’s oil once in a while and then hand on the keys to the next caretaker. John F. Kennedy would have done better to stop at a snack stand on his many travels to the beach and identify a fried bread product that had not yet caught on with most of the country, add some salt, color, and distinctive spice, and keep the courage of his convictions against his chip overlords until his creation had spread joy and delight to BILLIONS of people. Instead he partially instigated, then subdued, the Cuban Missile Crisis. A wash.

Anyway. Arch West. Goodnight, crunchy prince.

OKCupid Reader Mailbag: How to make a good profile

2011-09-28T22:43:00.001+03:30

REDACTED asks:

I gotta be honest man. You have the best profile I've ever read. Both in terms of being well-written, paced and humorous, and also as probably able to wrangle in more women than any other jerkoff profile I've seen. Respect.

That being said, I'm curious if you could give me your thoughts on my profile. I know it's kind of a lame thing to ask, but fuck it, you get it. Do you have any advice for me on how to better attract chicks on here?

OK, well first of all, thank you for saying such nice things. I like my profile, too. I get a lot of these emails because of reddit users briefly discussing me months ago. And most of my visitors are dudes from out of state. So, thanks guys. I wish you were nubile young women from Southern California, but, fuck it. At least someone gives a shit.

But I should tell you-- I get an incoming email from an actual girl in my age range about once every two weeks. If this is in fact the best profile on the entirety of OKCupid, and I am a six foot one athletically built white guy who is gainfully employed in a major metropolis, and this is the unsolicited message yield one can expect from an "original" and "humorous" profile, men are genuinely fucked. Plus my response rate on outgoing emails is about fifty per cent, my phone number rate when I ask this fifty percent for it is about fifty percent, the call back rate when I leave a message is about fifty per cent, and the amount of dates that actually result in sexual intercourse or wanting to see the other person again is fifty per cent, and so on. I am in a Zeno's paradox of pussy where you are walking halfway of halfway of halfway along a wall forever and by the time all the hoops are jumped through the possibility of having an actual relationship is functionally zero. So even if this profile is so fucking great, it's like-- the most lethal Nerf weapon ever invented. There's just not much you can do.

But still. It is good, for what it is. If nothing else, having a funny profile certainly distinguishes you from the rest of the community who are just boring the girls to tears. So, if you want to have a profile like mine, here's how to do it:

Get up an hour early every morning and sit down and make your fingers move on a keyboard until you have to go to work. DO NOT deliberately set out to write an OKCupid profile essay, just write about random shit, or how much your job sucks, or how much you're dreading your visit from your mother, or how your cat ate a gopher and then puked up its bones on your curtains. Write about how you are incensed that the rest of your D & D group wants to switch to 4th edition when you are the wizard and the whole point of playing a wizard was to be underpowered at low levels and then grossly overpowered at high levels and this has all been reduced to a formless mush where all the characters, even the fighters, have fifteen special abilities each that are functionally exactly like wizard spells, and plus you have to buy a whole new set of books and magic missile doesn't always hit anymore and the damage calculations for spells like fireball are just made so middle of the road and "balanced," no more of those ridiculous advances that suddenly turn your character into a badass at level five. And your intelligence modifier contributes to armor class, now-- really! Because you are smart enough to dodge blows? You read a book about how to duck from swords are something, so you no longer get to satisfyingly roleplay a character who is a master of the arcane arts but crazily susceptible to physical blows and can easily be taken out if he's standing in back and the party's thief failed a perception check for any kobolds flanking the party from behind, you know.

Anyway, write about shit like this for an hour for like five days. The trick is doing it long enough that you can get out of the "don't think about polar bears" phenomenon of remembering that this is for your OKCupid profile and just have legitimate, honest observations about life experiences flowing out of you. Then at the end of five days look over what you have and cut and paste whatever your favorite paragraphs are that are remotely germane to "six things I could never do without," etc. Tweak them a little to make them fit the question.

Ultimately, and this is a massive fucking cliche, but it comes down to show don't tell. The more you try to reveal, the more you make a point to reveal, the less you actually reveal. The more you have an on-the-nose discussion about your goals and aspirations in life, the more it feels like a sales brochure and one begins to suspect that your goals and aspirations are the exact opposite. You (the general "you," not you in particular, letter writer) come across as some bullshit advertiser-friendly simulacrum of yourself. And that dishonesty reads as chickenshit. It reads, to me at least, as shame about who you actually are. It reads like you have something to hide.

I know I'm shooting myself in the foot by admitting that virtually no girls actually message me, because look, now don't take my advice-- but-- there are such depths within people, you know. Such interesting stories. And they never want to show them on here; they want to give the sanitized version because they're afraid of scaring people away. Well, the good thing to know about OKC is that you are starting from nothing. Just being a dude who doesn't look like 1994 Casper van Dien has already scared them away. You literally have nothing to lose. You might as well crack yourself up, and if you can get a couple laughs out of people, maybe they will be the kind of people who will not be put off by your giving the list of the top ten abortions you've caused over a glass of Pinot, you know, and then maybe coming home and making it number eleven.

Anyway, long story short: take down all the shit that comes right out and says what you're like and put up random funny shit that is seemingly unrelated to the profile essay topics but is, in its honesty, revealing of who you actually are. Do this well, and you will still not get emails from women. It will make no difference. But you will get noticed by dudes from across the country who mistakenly think you get laid all the time. And really, other guys thinking you get laid is what life is all about.

Talk to Your Kids about Sex

2011-09-20T20:44:00.004+04:30

My mother was a feminist. My single mother, which means, God bless her, that I was raised as a feminist. It means my sex and relationship talks from her were about respecting women. About not taking advantage of women, not hurting them, not raping them. After my stepdad came into our lives I never discussed these things with him. It took a few conversations with my father to sort out the one thing that I really and truly needed to know about sex, which is: you’re not a bad looking dude, and don’t worry, you can get laid.

He’d had a very different life than me. I lost my virginity at seventeen; at that age he had been picked up for dealing heroin and given the choice of going to the clink or enlisting in the marines at the height of Vietnam. He told me stories like “one time I beat up this black guy so bad that I was checking the papers the next day to make sure I hadn’t killed him.” He had a tough, colorful life. I was on scholarship to a prep school where they had not one but two competing a capella groups that in any sensible community would have had the shit kicked out of them on a daily basis. I was going to a school where they flew in math geniuses from China and all the girls wore docksiders and no makeup and were second cousins with Winston Churchill and if they ever saw a penis they would explode. The occasional accidental erection of their horse was the only stiff penis they had ever seen, and they had absolutely no curiosity about expanding their knowledge. A rich new England WASP girl is basically born elderly, in terms of her sexuality. This is why she has time to focus on things like perfecting her application essay to intern at the U.N. When I started at this fancy school, it was immediately clear that none of these girls would ever show even the remotest interest in me; they barely showed interest in boys at all.

But still, I got talks about respecting women. I was assiduous about respecting them, when I couldn’t even get them to notice me or my fucking respect.

But my Dad-- I had always assumed that, you know, the tradeoff to being the kind of person who might go to jail at seventeen is, you get to be the kind of person who’s around girls who will fuck you when you’re fourteen. But no, he told me- I used to worry about girls all the time, you know. It took a while before I got laid a little bit by accident and I started to realize: hey, I'm not a bad lookin dude. I could do all right. Same shit will happen with you.

This was precisely what I needed to hear. When you are in a desert of female interest you begin to think you are a hideous unfuckable mutant and will remain a virgin forever. You are not thinking about how to hurt, break the heart of, or rape a woman. You are thinking about the problem of even getting a woman to notice you. You can't even get into a situation where you are alone in a room with a woman and rape or heartbreak might occur.

So instead of how to respect women and blah blah blah, what you should be telling your teenage son is how to get laid. Failing that: don't worry, you eventually will get laid. Because every ounce of hate, disrespect, every piece of abuse that has come out of me toward women has sprung from the fact that I was either desperate to get laid, or frustrated that I had not been able to get
laid.

Further, you should have two separate health classes, two separate sex eds. Right now sex ed is coed and is just a fancy way of saying "don't fuck." Most places can't say "God will make you blind if you jack off" anymore; they can't say that sexuality is wrong. But they can give you the impression that there's a huge chance that you'll get HIV through heterosexual sex, or that common infections like HPV are likely to have meaningful consequences. They can tell you: when to have sex is your choice, but remember that herpes HIV pregnancy etc., and so you better use a condom. You better use this awkward chemical-smelling medical torture device that that will make it impossible to feel where your dick is going, that will make it so you are not in fact touching the other person-- we can make sex something scary, pleasureless and unnatural with this thing that you now have to wear because some gay guys in 1982 got a disease in a San Francisco bathhouse that you are never going to get.

When to have sex is your choice, but you should be aware of the dangers-- see, go ahead and tell this to the girls' class. Tell the girls not to fuck, that it’s scary, that guys will fuck you and not call you-- tell them all these things; there are real consequences for them. It is their choice when to have sex and they should be aware of the dangers.

But for Christ's fucking sake-- it is certainly NOT a teenage boy's choice when to have sex; if it were, they would have all done it with their very first boner. The dangers are meaningless and not particularly germane to them to begin with; pulling out works; you're not going to get an STD; condoms are horrible, they completely ruin sex-- if they didn't do you think people would have to push them so hard? Every girl on the planet has an abortion and while it's going to fuck with the money you were saving for an Xbox it does not ruin them as human beings; they get over it. Who you lose your virginity to is meaningless, it is not something special for you-- it is a smear on you, visible to all, that needs to be purged as soon as possible. Fuck the fat chick. Fuck the school slut. Fuck your cousin. Do whatever it takes to get rid of your virginity as soon as possible. Because the struggle to get laid in the future very much hinges on it not being a big deal for you. The idea of being your first and providing you with a special life-changing experience and etc. is like a fucking horror movie for a girl. Girls want to get laid with guys who are already getting laid and don't give a shit. Better to throw your virginity away, to not put any weight on the experience-- to get it into your head that a fuck is just a fuck. That's the only way you won’t scare girls away with your unmanly nebbishiness.

When I have a son, that is the talk I'm going to have. Better, I'm going to take him to a hooker when he's thirteen. To show him that a fuck is just a fuck, so that the fucking obsession isn't hanging destructively over his head for his whole life. It burns you, having these early formative years with no girls giving a shit about you. It makes you hate women for the rest of your life. It makes you pissed off every time you see a couple holding hands on the street-- that fucking cunt, of course she's dating a guy in a band. It fucking ruins you. You end up treating women terribly because of this burning hate you carry around, a hate that comes from self-hate, from unworthiness to women. Seeing them as just a piece of pussy, and what's more a piece of pussy that is attainable, is, ironically, the only way you're ever going to treat women like human beings.

Back from the Pussy War

2011-09-20T20:44:00.001+04:30

I’m back from the pussy war. This is the war that men fight for 20 years, starting at around age 15. Maybe sooner. You spend 20 years thinking about nothing but pussy, how to get pussy, I need new pussy, where is there going to be pussy. You get out there in the trenches and you battle for pussy, you learn about the enemy, you try to take them down.

Now I’m thirty-five and a half and some hormonal switch has been thrown. Maybe it’s just age, maybe it’s my job crushing it out of me—who knows. But I no longer give a shit about pussy. I’m back from the pussy war.

I did well. Lots of confirmed kills. Not, you know—I didn’t take down the Osama of pussy. I didn’t fuck a lot of nineteen year old supermodels, but I did my part. And I didn’t get hurt. Didn’t get the wound that would take me out of the game—no STD that ever stuck, never impregnated a crazy chick, etc. If they gave out medals for the pussy war I would be decorated.

But I didn’t WIN the pussy war, either, because the objective was to go out and meet and get down with tons of girls, and one of them would be my future wife. I could retire from the pussy war honorably, having attained victory. But none of them were. I just went out there and killed a lot of pussy and it was ultimately for nothing. Pussy Afghanistan is relapsing into anarchy.

So what now? Like a regular war, the pussy war is dangerous, and depressing, and can hurt you, but it’s also exciting. And there’s nothing that can stack up to that now. One must seek out meaning and joy in other areas of life. The taste of food. A hummingbird drinking from a flower. Things that old people like. You are supposed to, at this phase in your life, begin eschewing cheap excitement for the contentment of hearth and home, and children. But I have no children—I lost the war, and now, you know, I’m getting so fucking old that the prospect of meeting someone and having them seems impossible. Like peace in the Middle East.

Diary 9/13/11: The Dogs Bark

2011-09-20T20:42:00.001+04:30

The stupid fucking barking dogs. Incessantly, always barking. They begin at about seven every morning. Must be when they’re let out of the house. They walk out the door and down the steps to the front gate and just stand there and bark without ever stopping even for one second. Bark bark bark. Bark bark bark. And of course, there are fifteen other houses on the street with multiple loud, unruly dogs, who all join in a chorus of bark bark bark, bark bark bark. But these two, this neurotic border collie mix and his little white terrier buddy-- the smaller dog, as is often the case, often seeming like the boss-- these two are the instigators. These are the guys who will bark at anything, must bark at everything. If you are in doubt about whether you should bark at something, you better bark at it.

Anyway, they start barking at seven a.m., which means their owner, a spinsterish 45 year old woman, must know that they do this. She must at least hear it on her way to the car, if not from the house as she prepares her bowel-cleansing yogurt and granola. These dogs barking impossibly loud. Loud enough to wake my entire apartment complex two doors down and certainly the other, much larger apartment complex right next door to her with many large windows facing her property. She knows, and she doesn’t give a fuck . One of my neighbors once complained to her and was given the “oh yeah, they’re just territorial.” She was given some very meek, polite version of “these god damn barking dogs are bugging the fuck out of me, ruining every morning, fucking with my sleep; you fuck with my sleep, it fucks with my entire day, every day—“ seriously, have you ever had a great day without having at least seven hours of undisturbed sleep? Never. Anyway, she was given that, and came back with a “well, they’re just that way.” At face value, this means that she thinks that she has no hand at all in the way her dogs behave. That they’re not pliable obedient creatures bred over tens of thousands of years to be spineless and retarded in the face of commands, to basically see you as the Führer and do exactly what they think you’re telling them. Or that just going out to the thousand acre park behind your fucking house and running the little fuckers around until they’re tired, letting them smell a gopher hole, dig up he corpse of a squirrel-- giving them something to think about and look forward to besides looking at the one walled off square of gate, listen for footsteps and then OMIGOD SOMEONE’S WALKING PAST THE HOUSE, A CAR IS DRIVING PAST THE HOUSE OMIGOD: BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK— they are not “just territorial.” They are like this because of you. That fucking border collie could probably do calculus if you taught him; there are sheep farmers in Scotland who have a whole goddamn sign language with these dogs where they can flick their pinky and the thing will steer 500 sheep precisely 30 degrees to the left— it’s not that they’re “just territorial,” it’s that you want to have a dog in your leathery old age where no man will come near you but you don’t want to do the work to make sure the dog has adequate shit going on in his life where he won’t just scream his head off and turn around over and over in a compact circle whenever a leaf falls off the tree across the street.

But that’s not what she really meant anyway, that they’re just like that. What she meant was: fuck off. Because basically, people who live near other people, when they choose to get a dog— what they are really saying is: I do not give one single fuck about the people around me. Someone who gets a dog in a densely populated city and does not take great care to follow the exact instructions of Cesar Millan and run that fucker around for hours every day and show him who is fucking boss and learn how to make him shut the fuck up, someone who is not fastidious about picking up the beast’s shit, who does not immediately punish the animal for snarling and threatening people-- remember, we are talking about city dogs here, not some cur chained to your lot full of cars in Alabama to guard your gas— someone who does these things does not give a fuck at all about other human beings. And I get that some people feel the same way about kids, you know, but if your kid ran up and punched someone in the nuts you would fucking discipline him. Well your fucking dog is kicking me in the nuts of my mind with his god damn seven in the morning barking.

Anyway. Once in a while I go over there and dump a five gallon bucket of water on them. No lemon juice in a squirt gun to the eyes or anything cruel, you know, but just toss a bucket on 'em and they run like hell, and shut up for a while. And I’m not going to lie, I enjoy seeing them wet, cowed and terrified. It’s horrible, but you know-- they’re dicks, and they fucking deserve it.

Done getting laid

2011-09-20T20:41:00.001+04:30

So-- I no longer give a shit about getting laid. Or I do, on a visceral level, like if I see a hot young chick with big tits jogging down the street I get horny. Whenever the nineteen year old mailroom girl comes by to deliver the mail, I get all pheromonal. We have a thing together, a flirtatious thing. I need to figure out how to make something happen with that.

Except I don't, because that's the thing. Aside from the most basic animal lust, I do not give a shit about getting laid. I will not go through the slightest effort to get laid. I will not say or do anything at any time that is any different than if I were not trying to get laid. Which I'm not. Trying to get laid.

Like-- twice in the past few weeks I've had good first dates with hot, reasonably interesting girls that I've gotten along well with. Perfectly solid girls. 4 stars on OKCupid for sure. Each time we ended up back at the apartment and it got physical; in one case the chick wouldn't take out her puss cuz she had a yeast infection, in the other I ended up performing oral sex on her. So while obviously I tried to have sex on the first date and it didn't happen, sex on the second date, which in both cases we had quasi-planned that night-- sex on the second date was fucking GUARANTEED. And both times, I blew it off. I did the thing that girls do to me-- I texted them that day that I couldn't make it without proposing a specific other time that we could go out. Because it was too hot, I was too hung over, the drive was going to be a pain in the ass... I did not make the simple effort just to go and harvest the fucking that I had painstakingly sewn on those first dates. I could not be bothered to reach my hand up and pluck the ripe fruit from the tree. Too much work. These girls would have had to volunteer to come over to my place some night when i was already drunk basically.

And as little as two months ago there is NO WAY this would have been the case. But I just can't do it anymore. I refuse to put any effort whatsoever into even guaranteed new pussy. What the fuck happened? Is it my testosterone? Is the grueling, humiliating grind of work just turning me into such an omega monkey that my nuts are basically falling off? My whiny priss of a boss constantly, snivelingly chewing me out over tasks that are so far beneath me that if anyone I knew walked into my office and saw what I actually do, I would be so mortified that I could basically never speak to that person again? The fact of being a subordinate, the low man on the totem pole, to people who are beneath you intellectually-- has this, after years of being able to put up with it-- has it finally gotten so bad that it actually unmanned me?

But I mean, I still jack off every day. I still lift weights. I still get just as physically horny, and just as viscerally enraged at the constant humiliations of my eleven hour per day low paying intellectually unsatisfying shitbag of a career-- I still fantasize about tearing apart my boss's tiny frail frame like dismembering a chicken wing. I still have, you know, secondary sex characteristics. I'm not growing tits. I don't think my hormone levels have changed that drastically. Certainly not drastically enough to make me not want to get laid with hot new ass, for Christ's sake.

So what is it? It's not that I don't want to fuck, it's just that I don't want to work for it-- at all. And I think the real issue with these chicks is that while the conversation flowed pretty well after three or four eleven per cent alcohol beers, they didn't really excite me as human beings. I could not see myself in a relationship with either one of them based on this one date, and I'm tired of doing it by rote. I was certainly being funny and telling them things they hadn't heard before, but it didn't feel like i was hearing shit I hadn't heard before. It felt like work.

I want somebody who gives something back, for Christ's sake. I want to walk away from a conversation feeling like "wow," you know? Feeling like, holy shit, that girl is fucking amazing-- I want to feel a little nervous like I better be on top of my game with her. I better not fuck up. I don't want to just feel like "oh, she'll never fuck me" or "that ass is in the bag." That's what happens, when girls can't engage you with little known facts about the potato being closely related to nightshade or whateverthefuck-- it becomes a mercenary game of would she fuck me can I fuck her I better be funny I better get her drunk; every conversation becomes completely agenda-driven and one-sided in the venal pursuit of ass. The pursuit of a piece of new pussy to keep the ego demons at bay for another two months. And I just can't fucking do it anymore.

The problem is, you never meet girls who will wake you up at all, ever, anywhere. There are less girls out populating the parties and bars and streets and grocery stores than there are men to begin with, and if they don't look like Rocky Dennis they have a boyfriend, or they're not going to come up and start talking to you-- you have to go up and talk to them while they hang back expectantly like dance, monkey, dance. Either they're too shy to come out with the trivia and jokes and secrets and stories and whatnot that are going to engage you or they flat out don't have them to begin with-- just being a chick who doesn't look like Rocky Dennis has been enough to sate their social needs. But still-- even if they don't need to be cool to get laid, aren't chicks just fucking interested in shit? Do chicks ever walk out of the apartment at seven in the morning and see two hummingbirds fighting or something and then go read about hummingbirds on wikipedia for forty-five minutes to learn about why they are such surprisingly aggressive birds? Or maybe they aren't, I'm making that up. But don't chicks get interested in this kind of shit and want to talk to someone about it?

Anyway. Fuck it, you know, this getting laid for the sake of getting laid. Now I'll have more time to concentrate on Xbox.

Match.com screening sex offenders

2011-09-20T20:40:00.001+04:30

So a woman went on a date off match.com; the guy was a convicted sexual batterer, and he went ahead and sexually battered her, too. So she sued them and now match.com is screening out sex offenders:

http://jezebel.com/5792045/women-sues-matchcom-after-date-leads-to-assault

Or trying to. Wonder what the mechanics are here. Do you now have to give them your social security number? Is it men only? I mean, it’s a different beast than OKC because match.com is already taking your credit card number, so, they’re already in the business of identifying you as an individual human being. As far as OKC goes you could actually be a sentient jellyfish that got a hold of a keyboard somehow. That’s kind of the beauty of it.

By the way, match.com is also in the business of taking your credit card number and charging sixty nine ninety nine to it every three months, forever. It’s genius how they do this—every three months that sixty nine ninety nine shows up on your balance. You see it and think “what the fuck? I haven’t signed on to that shit in three years.” You call-- you make a series of calls, emails, match tells you to call the bank, the bank tells you to call a different division of the bank, the different division of the bank tells you to call match, who tells you to email, you get no email back, you email again, you call again, etc., etc. and ultimately it turns out you have to do something like send a certified letter signed by a notary or bolstered by an Act of Congress or something and then MAYBE within ninety days they’ll stop charging your credit card. It becomes such a hassle to get off of match.com that you just forget about it for another three months, until you see that charge again and flip out. Maybe you even go on match, figure, fuck it, I’m payin’ for it. You go on match and it’s the exact same chicks that are on OKC, except they too haven’t logged on to match in three years.

Eventually you just change your credit card and I’m sure the match.com system still keeps pinging it every three months, trying to charge it, eventually sending five years worth of sixty nine ninety nine charges to some collection agency where it fucks up your credit rating and the debt gets sold for pennies on the dollar to some outfit out of Nevada that will call your former workplaces trying to track you down over a “private matter.” True story: the first time I got a weird charge from match.com I called the credit card company and they said “oh yes, this is match.com, to resolve this you have to call the company’s customer service directly. Here’s the number: one eight hundred blah blah blah.” And I said "oh, that's nice-- Bank of America keeps a database of customer service numbers on file for customers?“ And the rep said “no, the only one we have that for is match.com.” Seriously. They got called about match.com so many times that it’s the ONLY outside company number Bank of America keeps on hand.

Anyway, now they're screening out sex offenders. The obvious question: are they throwing the public urinators in there, too? You always hear about this, how the guy taking a piss in the bush outside the Dodger game is going to have to sign up for life to be a registered sex offender. He’s going to have to go door to door every time he moves, forever, like Jesus in THE BIG LEBOWSKI, all crazy-eyed in slow motion, because he took a piss outside a Dodger game and therefore his dick was en plein air where a child might see it from 500 yards away. Although-- you hear about this, but I did a Megan’s Law search for my neighborhood to see if there were any public urinators and:

A) Every single Megan’s Law convict in my area is on the site either for multiple counts of aggravated forcible rape or multiple counts of forced intercourse with a minor under fourteen yeards of age, or lewd and lascivious acts with a minor under fourteen years of age. So-- the only possible bullshit ones are the “lewd and lascivious acts.” That sounds like maybe you showed them some porn or something, or talked dirty. But still, under fourteen. I like that the law has that distinction. I know we’re real puritanical about underage sex, but there really is a difference between under eighteen and under fourteen. I hope guys who get convicted of boning sixteen year olds have their crime listed as “lewd and lascivious acts with a minor under eighteen BUT over fourteen.” The law's version of “eh, we’ve all jacked off to it.”

B) Every single Megan’s Law convict in my area looks EXACTLY like you would expect a forcible aggravated rapist or forcible copulator with a minor under fourteen years of age to look. Seriously, Echo Park Megan’s law is some central casting shit—mustaches, Mark David Chapman glasses, tawny thinning hair combed over a shiny sebaceous scalp. There’s some ethnic diversity in there but even the black guys have a cast like Stanley Tucci in LOVELY BONES. If you saw any of these guys on the street, you would INSTANTLY know that they are a multiply-offending aggravated forcible rapist and/or forcible copulator with minors under the age of fourteen. I bet they all drive primer-colored windowless vans too.

But back to the fucking point. Match.com is screening out sex offenders to avoid bad PR about a chick getting raped by a repeat offender. This is their 9/11 and the screening is their terror watch list, and soon we're all gonna have to take off our shoes and have a stout Dennis Franz looking dude forage around our taint at the airport of internet dating. And you know what? Fine. This is one of the few areas in life where whether you're a sex offender SHOULD matter. You should be kicked off match.com if you get convicted of rape, and you should not be able to be a mall Santa if you did three years for fingerfucking your niece. But frankly, these are the ONLY things the sex offender registry should be used for, instead of its curent overreaching fucking miasma of public humiliation, baiting of vigilantism, crushing of lives and careeres, banning public urinators from living within a thousand feet of schools in cities where there's a fucking school every five hundred feet, etc. The sex offender registry is a cruel and unusual crock of shit and should have been completely done away with BUT not now, because they've finally found a legitimate use for it. I give a fuck about sex offenders in two areas of life: being around kids and being in the dating pool scaring the girls, and that's it. I don't give a shit if the guy at the muffler shop likes the bald pussy.

I mean of course, any sense of security you get from this is false, you can be sex offended at any time by anyone, the call is coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE, etc. And there's no way they execute this without some poor John Hodgman-looking schlump with the same name as a rapist getting tracked down by a match.com torch mob and strung up. And sex crimes are overrreported as well as underreported, so a bunch of these guys probably did time for nothing because some child psychologist had a hard on to find some Satanic Ritual Abuse, and now this dude is out and he can't even go on a date. And even TALKING about sex offenders, even doing something that ostensibly makes online dating MORE SAFE, just by bringing it up you are making every girl think that their date is going to show up with a nylon stocking over his face and a boxcutter. But still. Why the fuck not.

Old News: The Magic: the Gathering® Guy and That One Chick

2011-09-20T20:35:00.004+04:30

So, no one who is possibly reading this post has not heard about this:

http://gizmodo.com/5833787/my-brief-okcupid-affair-with-a-world-champion-magic-the-gathering-player

The girl who went out with a guy off OKC, found out he was a world champion Magic: the Gathering® player, was ostensibly appalled and wrote a Gizmodo article about how she was stunned and it's a huge dealbreaker and etc.

Couple things. First, as Forbes was quick to point out, of course this is an obvious troll. This woman, desperate to make a living in the non-lucrative world of blog writing, has just said “fuck it,” you know, I need something that gets a million hits. So I’m gonna write about how I’m a chick who was appalled to date a nerd, thus getting the two commentingist, complainingest groups on the planet to catch fire over my article. Chicks and nerds.

And second, yes, ultimately her beef is bullshit, the fact that he’s the world champion Magic: the Gathering® player being a huge dealbreaker and etc. I mean, millions of people play Magic: the Gathering®. It’s not really that big a deal to be a nerd anymore; it’s just its own subculture. It’s not quite a sexy one like punk rocker or whatever but it’s its own thing and nerds can get laid now. So at face value her point is really bitchy, and her whole hedging about getting on Okcupid in the first place—her whole thinly-veiled I’m-too-good-for-this thing-- while, again, a deliberate troll, well, yes, it’s twatty. She is a twat, and she should be called a twat. So Sharon Bezefrnak or whateverthefuck your name is, you are a twat.

BUT people are failing to read between the lines here. Because people are getting hung up on the Magic-being-the-dealbreaker thing and not looking at her whole description of the date. Which—he is a hedge fund manager. Only two kinds of people do this-- drunken date rapist frat boys, and cold, Aspergian number-crunching nerds. Of course he is the latter. He manages a hedge fund, but he is not the smooth guy out there hobnobbing with the nephew of the Sultan of Brunei over martinis at the titty bar, convincing him through camaraderie to sink $200 million of oil money into a Brazilian ruby mining concern with high upside potential. There is some other guy, probably a lacrosse player of some kind, who does this, while Jon Finkel sits back in a cramped office with one buzzing florescent light and pores over 12,000 page excel spreadsheets looking for some curvilinear regression formula that will add .0002 cents 8 times out of ten to the result of an equation with 47 variables. Or coming up with some piece of code that will robotically act on some stock price information transmitted from the Nikkei to make 4,000 fake transactions per second that it stops short of actually executing so it can artificially drive up the price of Philippine corn commodities by one one thousandth of a penny a million times per day. You know he is this guy, because he plays Magic: the Gathering®.

So my guess is he is some kind of socially hobbled Aspergian. And therefore I speculate that he fucked up not by dropping the Magic® bomb, but in HOW he dropped the Magic® bomb. Because there is no piece of information EVER, ANYWHERE on the planet that will make a chick recoil if you deliver it confidently, like it’s no big deal. Murder, sex offender registry, Magic®: the Gathering, whatever. I routinely tell my dates that I have to turn in early to get up for an eight hour Dungeons and Dragons session the next day. ROUTINELY. NO ONE ever has any real issue with this. Because I say it like I have no fucking problem or insecurity with it, because I have no problem or insecurity with it. Lots of girls sarcastically take the bait, go for some easy dig, and I tell them to fuck right off. I'm gonna take you home and rawdog you, and then I'm gonna get up and carefully optimize my enchanter spellbook. Because Dungeons and Dragons is fucking FUN. And I am not afraid to say so, with confidence.

So when the issue of Magic: the Gathering® came up, you KNOW he was hemming and hawing about it, or worse, he was deliberately holding it back until he could smugly declare that he was the world champion, hoping this would impress her. Either way he was THINKING about it, thinking in advance about what to do when it came up, or how to make it come up, and the fact that he even had to think shows that he was already dead to all pussy, now and forever.

Plus, he took her to a one man show about Jeffrey Dahmer. And he went on a second date with her, even though she looks like you put a wig on Albert Finney:

Which makes me think maybe the dude doesn’t have a ton of options. Nothing against him— it’s hard when you have a job and time-consuming hobbies, etc.

Anyway, yes, the chick is a twat, but they'll get like that if you don't man up about liking wizards. Just my two cents.

What always happens is

2011-09-01T04:38:00.001+04:30

I'll be having a sex dream, right? Usually this starts as a regular dream, but then an attractive chick shows up and I just grab her to start fucking. Last night the scene was that I was back in my college looking for my dorm room, but the doors were all sci-fi futuristic and I couldn't find mine. I went into some random room and there was a hot blonde chick in there and I pulled up her skirt and bent her over her bed. This is what happens, whenever a hot chick shows up in my dream- the narrative of the dream, whatever emotional message it was trying to tell me, goes out the window and I just grab her and rip off her clothes.

Anyway, I had this chick bent over with her rump exposed, and she was all giggly, and I got on top of her and lined up my dick and went to push it in, you know? Except my body pantomimed this thrusting motion in my sleep and my boner rubbed gratingly against the sheets and it woke me up.

And this happens to me EVERY FUCKING TIME. Only ONCE have I ever had actual intercourse in a dream; this was, interestingly, in the selfsame college dorm room heretofore mentioned when my roommate's bed was right next to mine and I couldn't jack off for like a week. I guess I was so horny that I just powered through it. But anyway- every time, my boner grinds against my mattress on the first pump and wakes me up instantly. It is the most frustrating thing in the fucking world.

Fuck "your" and "you're"

2011-09-01T04:37:00.000+04:30

and "there," "their" and "they're--" I need a chick who throws a diæresis in "coöperate," and an "æ" in "diæresis," but doesn't use a diæresis in "diæresis" because you are not, without this forewarning, going to pronounce "diæresis" as though "iæ" were a a monosyllabic diphthong. I need a chick who carefully searches for the correct combination of keys to make a circumflex over "rôle," but ONLY when discussing a part played by an actor. I need a chick who says "AN historian." In fact, she better really hammer the "ANNNNN" in a sly nod to anyone else out there who thinks someone who says "a historian" is an illiterate savage. I wouldn't date anyone who says "I would like" unless they're talking about some counterfactual fantasy universe. I wouldn't like to date that person. See, I can say it, because I'm not really ever gonna hear someone say "I would like to go out with you" outside of a counterfactual fantasy universe. I'm never gonna hear someone use the correct "I should like to go out with you," either, but I WOULD really fucking like to date that person. She'd have studied classics and she'd use words like "Grecism" pronounced as though it had a cédille, but she would cringe a little every time because pronouncing a "c" like that is the fucking opposite of a Grecism.

Also, no fat chicks.

Wait a minute- am I attractive?

2011-08-18T22:30:00.001+04:30

Somebody called me "attractive" last night. For the first time that it was actually meaningful. Because every other time it’s either been:

a) in response to my saying “Jesus Christ, my face looks like it was hit with a fucking shovel."

b) a horny gay guy trying to get laid or

c) an even less attractive friend saying “Jesus, you must have it so easy, you’re attractive." To him, I am "attractive" just like to a Somali war orphan the guy clocking fifteen grand a year at Arby’s is “rich.”

Or it was my friends, or my girlfriend, or my mom, etc. I don’t believe any of them. For my entire life it has been my absolute bedrock belief that I am a hideous unlovable mutant whom no woman could let her eyes linger on for even a second lest she gag. And this is borne up by reality, because no women ever look at me, talk to me; no woman ever makes the first move to approach me, ever. Gays do it all the time, but you know, I hit on fat chicks all the time. Gays want to fuck me the same way a drunk guy wants to fuck his couch.

And here’s the crazy part about this- it is an ego trip basically. Because the idea is, you know- I get laid all the fucking time. Sure I have to work for it, scrabble hard, fail. I endure humiliating rejection constantly; I have to go out when I’m cranky and tired if there’s the barest chance of pussy at some shitty party, constantly. I have to troll the internet for good-bone-structure-but-slightly-overweight types, constantly. I get pussy the way a farmer can wring a niggardly living out of a few acres of non-arable land by backbreakingly digging out rocks with his bleeding fingers, by trapping each miserly trickle of rain into his pathetic drought-choked crops, etc. Whereas for an attractive guy it’s like living on a hundred hectares of prime, you know. A lush, verdant paradise where the soil is made from cow shit and all you have to do is kick back and harvest the fruit that falls.

Anyway, it’s an ego trip, because I have always thought: “Jesus, I am ugly as fuck and I still get laid. Therefore, my personality must be SO GOD DAMN MAGNETIC that women (occasionally) can’t resist me despite their gut telling them to flee from this beast.” That’s what the frame has been for me my whole life.

But then this chick, she is talking about hiring me on to make youtube videos for her company that makes advertisements. And she says “I think you’ll do well because, you know, just say shit like your blogs, and you’re attractive.” And the needle fell off the record for a second. This chick is gay, so there’s no she’s interested in me and is saying I’m attractive for wanting to date me reasons. She said I’m attractive as part of a cold, mercenary calculation about whether my face might be used to accrue youtube subscribers that Axe Body Spray™ might pay three dollars per head per year for. I have never before received the information that I’m attractive in such a convincing manner.

So—wait a minute. Am I fucking attractive? Have girls actually been sleeping with me because of my fucking LOOKS? And they just never approach me or make the first move because, well, women are so fucking entitled to do absolutely nothing, ever, that even an average looking woman will only lift a finger to hit on a guy who looks like 1994 Casper Van Dien?

And what does this mean? Am I merely a good looking dude, and women are tolerating me in SPITE of my fucking grating, maddening personality? And they secretly wish I would just shut the fuck up and fuck them?

It’s like, when Buckminster Fuller was asked whether he believed in aliens. And he was like “maybe there are, and maybe there aren’t. Either way, it’s mind-blowing.”

Alpaca Farming

2011-08-18T04:03:00.001+04:30

Yeah, just stay away from alpacas, though. Because I know they have those ads late at night, between "BUY GOLD NOW" and "they'll bring the diabeedus kits right to yer home," and they show a little blonde boy frolicking with the angelic baby alpaca, you know. But it ain't like that. They're fucking surly, they bite, and their natural defense is to spit a hardened wad of mucous at your eyes or chest at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Also, the alpaca costs like 30 grand and it produces ten pounds of wool per year, which retails for $17 per pound. You are trapped breeding more and more thirty thousand dollar alpacas to sell to the next sucker, forever.

Peanut Allergies

2011-08-18T04:02:00.000+04:30

I had a buddy who was allergic to nuts. Before it was cool. I didn’t even know about it until a dish featuring almonds was served and he politely declined. He just tactfully, simply stated: “I can’t, I’m allergic to nuts.”

No one does that now. Anyone who is allergic to nuts, or especially people whose children are allergic to “peanuts and tree nuts,” which like “autism spectrum disorder” is now something that happens to approximately seventy per cent of all rich kids—everyone who is allergic to nuts makes it into this big movie-of-the-week where they’re going to swell up and die just from looking at a god damn peanut.

In the future, there will be two Americas. The only difference between them will be whether they have peanuts. Two exactly parallel mirror societies, except one freely eats peanuts and the other does not permit even the thought of the dust of a peanut; in the latter it will be punishable by death to have dreamed about being in a room where a peanut was once present in 1976. Two Americas, one where children with peanut allergies are taken seriously and spoken of in hushed tones as though peanuts were the holocaust, where people without a little boy like mine could not possibly understand the hell of going through life knowing that at any moment he might be exposed to a peanut and die, and another society where everyone just laughs at these people while freely eating peanuts.

Imagine being the ghost of George Washington Carver at this moment. From humble beginnings, you grew up in poverty, bootstrapped your way into an education, and got a gig in the South where the cash crop was peanuts. And you took it upon yourself to invent ways that nearly every fucking thing on Earth could be manufactured from peanuts. Record player needles. Plastic-like materials decades ahead of their time. Medicines. Cars made from peanuts, probably. Not only did you elevate the fucking peanut to a life- and labor-saving panacea, you became the pre-eminent African-American scientist in the history of the fucking WORLD by doing so. You became the only black scientist anyone can name who is not that Neil Eric Dyson guy on TV. During black history month, people have to talk about you constantly because in the mind of the nation, you are the only black scientist ever. Fuck the guy who invented open heart surgery. He should have been named George Washington something; something easy to remember. Abraham Lincoln Jones. John F. Kennedy Openheartsurgeryinventor.

Anyway, imagine being the ghost of George Washington Carver—for half a century you are in heaven hearing about how you are the greatest black scientist of all time and every device conceivable can be made cheaper and better out of peanuts and then suddenly BOOM-- peanuts become the fucking DEVIL. Peanuts kill babies; we cannot permit even one atom of peanut to be within five thousand miles of any child. Peanuts and THINGS THAT HAVE TOUCHED PEANUTS are now not allowed in schools.

What is the fucking deal with this? And why is it suddenly “peanut and tree nut allergies.” Every time peanuts were even MENTIONED in my youth some authority figure always took great pains to clarify that despite being named “nut” they were in fact a legume. More closely related to peas and beans; a peanut is not a nut. Peanuts have nothing to do with nuts. And yet every single person who is deathly allergic to peanuts is also allergic to regular nuts.

This is how you know it’s bullshit. People are allergic to both things because they are both named “nut.” Just like people are allergic to “both fish and shellfish” when one of them is an H.P. Lovecraft-y primitive alien invertebrate whose biology is so foreign to regular fish that it might as well have come from another fucking planet. Clams might as well be from fucking Jupiter. They’re called “shellfish” because people used to call everything in the water a fish. Whales were called fish.

You can go to an “allergist” and get your allergy to “both fish and shellfish” cured by having light beamed on to you through a series of colored filters, seriously. It’s all in your fucking head. On some level, you are just subconsciously creeped out by sea creatures. Me too, I get it. Slimy things with slimy legs. Creepy, squirmy, cold-blooded blank-eyed fiends of the deep. Weird worms growing on vaults of magma at three hundred atmospheric pressures, ten reverse-Everests under the black, crushing soul-void of the sea. Hideous parasites on Neptune’s ball sac. I don’t like the fucking things either. But sushi is delicious.

Diff'rent Strokin' some underage cock

2011-08-18T04:01:00.003+04:30

I was thinking about when Arnold on DIFF'RENT STROKES was almost molested by a guy because the dude had an Atari and offered Arnold a bike. Even though Arnold lived in a gilded cradle of indescribable wealth. It goes to show you what a jerkoff Mr. Drummond was-- he could have spared Arnold the very real possibility of getting buttfucked by an old fat guy by merely spending a pittance on some basic creature comforts that millions and millions of kids had, and they didn’t turn out to be slackers or fuckups. But because the guy had an Atari and a bike that Mr. Drummond had prickishly withheld, Arnold almost got fucked in the ass. And for poor Dudley, there was no “almost.” Dudley was deeply penetrated over and over and over again by an aging bear’s veiny, grey-pubed beef stick. Which experience Dudley had to replicate over and over and over again at 3am in some dank abandoned public park, seeking out white-haired "tops" of the approximate build as his initial rapist sitting idling in vans, well into adulthood. Probably.

Mitch has micropenis

2011-08-18T04:01:00.001+04:30

Mitch has micropenis. There are a lot of other things about him worthy of note, but for now, let me just state this again: Mitch has micropenis. The person with micropenis is to a man, like, if you lived in a small town in 1984 during the height of child molestation and satanic ritual abuse hysteria, and there was a kid who actually got kidnapped in a van and sexually abused—if you knew this kid, or knew someone who knew this kid, he became a whispered legend who touched off some deep horror that felt like fingers tickling around your spine. To hear about an actual person with micropenis. To see a woman actually crook her thumb to give you a visual aid about the size of this man’s penis, bending it at a 90 degree angle to make very clear that it was not the length and girth of her entire thumb in its fully erect state, just the second digit. Mitch has micropenis. He is a complex character in many ways but in my mind no nuance of his being will be attributed to anything but his micropenis.

OKCupid: You should message me if: part 2

2011-07-22T00:10:00.001+04:30

I canceled my drinks with (REDACTED). Even though I like (REDACTED) and would totally enjoy hanging out with her. She is– she took me to a museum once. She is really smart. She knows a lot about art and literature and stuff. And I think she kind of had the hots for me. See, why couldn’t I date someone like that? A chick who went to Harvard and has her shit together and knows who fucking Albrecht Dürer is and can distinguish between different phases of his career. Who knows who Lucas Cranach the Elder is. Someone who has a finely tuned taste for the works of various Northern Renaissance engravers, is what I need. Someone who can tell apart multiple different interpretations of works by Claude Debussy. Who can hear the orchestral version of some Claude Debussy shit and know that it was orchestrated by Maurice Ravel, or whoeverthefuck. Who legitimately enjoys these things. Someone who knows about plants and animals. Hummingbirds. Insects.

But I also need someone who who grew up in a trailer getting molested and yet still thinks child molestation jokes are funny. Someone whose sister once blew a guy for Insane Clown Posse tickets. Someone who has family members in jail. Who has cousins that are fundamentalist Christians who hate gays and post caricatures of Obama on facebook. Who has relatives that listen to Rush Limbaugh. Someone who has been on food stamps. But also is interested in Claude Debussy. Who can get really excited about Rachmaninoff’s weird but perfect interpretations of Bach, how much more alive they are… but also someone who is familiar with the works of Kenny Rogers.

And it would help if it were someone who has absolutely perfect bone structure– the face of a six year old white child– and is not too fat. Although, by “too fat,” you know, my definition is surprisingly lenient. But someone who enjoys playing Dungeons and Dragons. Someone who has done heroin, but never shot it up. Someone who has smoked crack. But is not too old. Not over 25 preferably. Someone who doesn’t expect me to have money.

I need an extremely good looking chick ten years younger than me who is as smart and knowledgeable as someone who was raised by eccentric Swarthmore professors with old money who drive a maroon Volvo 240 “brick” with a ski rack on top and a Choate Rosemary Hall sticker across the back windshield, but who fucks on the first date like her dad is a welder with blurry tattoos who can easily put down a 24 pack of Schlitz. If she even knows who her dad is. Surprisingly, this is really, really hard to find.

OKCupid: You should message me if: part 2

2011-07-22T00:10:00.000+04:30

OKCupid: Fatties

2011-07-15T23:28:00.003+04:30

You know how it is. Lotta fatties on the OKC. Your first harbinger of this— I mean, besides everybody knowing that the internet is full of fat chicks, this fact having suffused our popular culture, etc.— your first harbinger of this is the weight class list it makes you pick from, which has like two words for skinny and fifteen different kinds of fat.

Because of course we all know “average” means fat. These eighteen to thirty-five year old L.A. girls are generously assorting themselves according to the national average across all age groups. Not the average for eighteen to thirty-five year olds in Los Angeles, California, as a reasonable layman would expect “average” to mean when looking for that age group in this city. These girls are following the letter of the law and not the spirit, like Hasids who string yarn along the telephone wires on their block so they’re technically in an enclosed space and can walk around on the Sabbath. So “average” means fat.

“Curvy” means fat. Not a chick with big boobs and a big ass but otherwise reasonably fit proportions, as a reasonable layman would expect it to mean. “Curvy” means “I am fat but I have big tits. And I don’t want to be lumped in with these inferior small titted fatties, and besides when guys look at me they don’t see ‘fat,’ they see ‘tits,’ so the defining feature of my physical being is tits and I’m gonna put ‘curvy.’” “Curvy” also has the advantage of seeming more erotic, like “voluptuous.” “Curvy“ is a fat girl who will give you doe eyes in a bar and suck your dick on the first date. There’s a sub class of “curvy” who purport to be the reasonable layman’s definition of “curvy,” and they always have a big paragraph about how “CURVY DOES NOT MEAN ‘FAT’ IT MEANS I HAVE BIG BOOBS AND A BIG BUTT AND I AM NOT LIKE ALL THE OTHER FAT ‘CURVY’ GIRLS ON HERE,” which, I bet if you showed up to a date with these girls, they would be fat. There are also fat girls with small tits who say “curvy,” which-- get the fuck out of here. By the way, fat girls with small tits—God. You must have torched a village in a past life.

And let’s not even get into what a cruel joke the word “few” in “a few extra pounds” is. And “athletic,” and “fit,” which through sad experimentation I have learned both mean a fat chick with muscle under her fat, not the lean vegan Pilates instructor build you’d think “fit” meant for an eighteen to thirty five year old woman in Los Angeles. So, unless it says “thin,” the girl is going to be fat.

And even “thin—“ I bet the dishonesty creep that internet dating causes, you know, everybody exaggerating just a little bit and then everybody else has to exaggerate just a little bit more to compete— so that by the time my son is dating on the holographic cybernetic implant internet, all women will be “thin” and all men will be nine feet tall and earning six billion dollars a year-- I bet this means that a lot of girls who describe themselves as “thin” are in fact fat. Because they are again comparing themselves to the national average which is heavily weighted down by fifty five year old women with eight grandkids who work at the Hormel factory and get to bring home factory-irregular packages of spam and chili which they then gnaw on while watching Ron Popeil roaster infomercials late into the night. They are slightly below this national average so therefore they must be “thin.” Or they were thin once. They were thin once and gained weight but “thin” is still their concept of themselves, which, the evidence is right there-- just look at all my photos from 2005; I am “thin.” I bet a lot of the time when you message a thin girl and she shows up for the first date she's fat. Although I don’t know for sure since a thin girl has never messaged me back.

So there’s a lot of fat chicks.

And look man, I don’t need to tell you that when you’re trying to get a date, being fat is a pretty big fucking deal. Obviously I’m focusing on women here but for the guys, too—I know there’s this idea that you’re constantly seeing fat bald schlubs walking around with chicks who look like Zooey Deschanel, and that for men appearance isn’t that important and etc. etc. But this is bullshit. I only ever see chicks who look like Zooey Deschanel walking around with guys with button noses and lantern jaws, and less than ten per cent body fat. Guys who look like Casper Van Dien and are built like champion kick boxers and had a seven episode arc on some CW show. Those are the guys who are pulling that waitress who when she briefly placed her hot palm on your shoulder when presenting the check you felt like-- you felt a tickly feeling like the first time you ever jacked off and thought you were some secret genius who had invented it.

So being fat matters; it is a big deal, and you know, dating is a big deal. I have a career type job, many friends, a delightful pet cat, and rewarding hobbies, but still-- all I ever think about is: how am I gonna meet women? Dating is a big deal. So why do you allow yourself to hold on to this massive disadvantage in this most important area of life? There’s some things you can’t change, obviously—I for one have a face that looks like it was severely damaged with a piece of farm equipment, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But you better god damn believe I have meaty pectorals with what appears to be a zipper zigzagging down between them, and visible obliques, and a fingery lattice of muscle crisscrossing over my ribs when I lift my arms above my head, and different muscle groups kind of elbowing each other out of the way when I flex my ass in the mirror, which I often do. And biceps with a peak on them, and etc. etc. All of this covered with a solid but not Jersey-Shore-ostentatious fake tan to highlight the contrast between these various chiseled muscles.

And I have bought these things with great pain because dating is fucking important. Finding a mate to spend the rest of your motherfucking life with is important. And sad as it may be, people are fucking shallow.

But maybe, for the fattie, getting into the best possible shape isn’t a matter of merely going to the gym and just sucking up the hours of agony and tedium. Maybe for a fat chick the parallel is, like— for me, I hate my job where I spend ten hours per day; I am generally self-loathing, I have never traveled, and I have accomplished nothing of worth, ever. And maybe my asking them “why are you so fat” isn’t like asking “why don’t you just go to the gym?” Maybe it’s like asking me: "why are you so broke? Why are you so mean? Why are you so miserable? Why don’t you just get your fucking life together and use your talents to do something you love, and maybe you wouldn’t hate yourself.” Maybe changing their body in this way is a complex, difficult, life-changing process involving deep and painful self examination. Maybe it’s a shattering of one’s world so huge that you look at the distance between here and there and don’t even know where to begin.

Or maybe they just think someone will be able to look past their looks and see inside to the beautiful person they truly are. Which-- fucking come on, man.

More OKCupid: Eighteen to thirty-five

2011-07-14T03:00:00.003+04:30

I had to change my “looking for” ages from 18-35 to 24-35. I had to change it because 19 year old girls stopped messaging me once I admitted I was looking for them. Back when it was originally like 27-33 I used to get a ton of messages from women way under this age range, and I went out with them. And I had a fucking great time. So I changed my age range to honestly reflect this. All correspondence with these girls immediately dried up.

Before this, I’d had to increase the upper limit from 29 to 35, because every response I got to an email clearly indicated that the person thought I was a dirtbag. I had thought I was being kind of rakishly uncaring about societal mores or whatever and this brazen I-don’t–give-a-shit honesty would get me points, you know. Because it seemed like every other time I wrote something dickish on my profile, thinking I was pushing the limits of how much of a dick you could be, it only resulted in a huge uptick of messages from hot younger women. So I thought this dickish 18-29 only move would do that as well. But shit dried up.

So this is one thing you can’t be honest about. It’s kind of a pain in the ass because your little sliding row of thumbnails on your home page and your “you might likes” are suddenly filled with “35 year olds” who are clearly 35 in Jupiter years. But it’s the price you gotta pay. Because while 19 year olds don’t seem to have any qualms about dating a 35 year old, they have serious qualms about dating a 35 year old who says he likes 19 year olds.

Well look: I like 19 year olds. So does every other man on the planet; this is news to no one. Let me take it a step further and say: I like 15 year olds. I like 13 year olds. Usually guys who admit this then launch into a long apologia about how girls are sexually mature at that age and it’s NATURAL to want to mate with them when they’re capable of producing viable healthy offspring and etc etc. I hadn’t even thought it through this far— 13 year old girls just give me a huge boner and I’m not going to fucking apologize for it. I don’t care if it’s natural or not. Lots of things are “natural;” genocide is probably natural. But, you know, I’m never gonna fuck a thirteen year old. I remember what I was like at that age and if some dude had fucked me in the ass I’d still be carrying it around in some dark corner of my soul and making thousands of tiny cuts on my arms just so I could feel something, etc. So I’d never act on this, but, I regularly beat off to it.

Anyway, the closest I’m going to get to this base desire to fuck underage girls is the 19 year old community college student who either really really likes or really really doesn’t like her father, or he just wasn’t around in general, and so she seeks out someone like myself who has a couple wiry white hairs sprouting out around his temples and crinkles up like Luke Perry when he smiles. But he’s still just barely young enough that it doesn’t feel like you’re going to have to sit through his story about fleeing the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

I tell girls my own age about this predilection, and they’re always like “Jesus, what do you talk to them about?” I don’t know, dude-- what do I talk to you about? I go on dates with 33 year olds too, and let me tell you: they’re not finally explaining quantum mechanics to me in a way I can grasp. The 33 year olds I date off OKC are pretty much exactly like the 19 year olds-- they’ll laugh at your jokes and kind of build on them but rarely take the conversation in a new direction themselves or make you laugh. You get in their car and some fucking Lady Gaga comes on the stereo, just like she if was 19. It’s not like the 33 year old is going to pleasantly surprise me with some remasterd recording of Rachmaninoff playing Bach, and marvel with me about the expressive tone this motherfucker gets out of a piano, which I’d heretofore not thought was an instrument capable of such, you know, colors… and maybe even Rachmaninoff would supplant Glenn Gould as the foremost keyboard interpreter of Bach in my mind because of the CD this chick popped in in her 1997 Volvo. No, she’s playing lady Gaga just like every other retard.

The only difference is the 33 year old is suddenly very picky about her mate selection and makes you want to jump through a bunch of hoops. She is looking at you with this figurative jeweler’s loupe giving you all kinds of scrutiny about every little fucking thing, trying to determine your viability as dating material, instead of just relaxing and getting drunk and having a good fucking time like the 19 year old is. Plus, you get that 19 year old naked and god motherfucking damn, you know?

And also, with a 33 year old I’m guilty of this jeweler’s loupe thing, too. When I go out with women my own age, suddenly it becomes about looking for wife material. Suddenly I’m judging them by this impossible standard of: they better show me that they’re witty and brilliant and you know, at the end of that one ninety minute date with that 33 year old I better walk out of there feeling suddenly alive and like my heart has been reawakened to the possibility of connecting with another human being on a deep soulful level, etc. I cut women over thirty exactly zero slack about not being funny, for instance. Or about being even slightly uptight over my admittedly vulgar and unseemly behavior.

I don’t know why this is. I don’t know why I am perfectly accepting of a 19 year old telling me she dates a lot of guys in bands, but I think oh OF COURSE, you fucking whore! when the 33 year old tells me she’s sick of dating guys in bands. Of course, now that you’re losing your looks and guys in bands suddenly don’t want to date YOU, now you’re ‘sick’ of them. I don’t know why women over thirty get the full laser beam of my bitter misogynistic judgement and the teenagers are spared. But whatever. I like young girls, so sue me.

Everybody thinks

2011-07-14T02:59:00.001+04:30

it's so easy for everybody else.

I was at a party. A party full of gays. Me and a gay guy were talking about dating, and he said something to the effect of: "well it must be great for you, because you're a straight guy in LA. You can get whatever you want whenever you want."

WHAT THE FUCK????!!!! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Does this guy not know? Has he not seen every single party and bar and restaurant and grocery store line, ever, in Los Angeles? There is never an attractive enough to fuck girl ever, and if there is she has a boyfriend, or there are three of them and 10,000 guys, or there is one by herself but she is creeped out at the prospect of even looking at you. And of course he's never been on one of these online dates where it seemed like it was going pretty good until you went for the makeout halfway in and she turned her fucking cheek toward you, because it turns out she is new to online dating and hasn't yet gotten the memo about how the plan is we show up, we drink, we fuck. She thinks it's going to be some old-timey courtship from the antebellum South where maybe you get a kiss on the third date if her chaperone nods off after a mint julep on the porch, and then I high five the slaves on my way out.

Anyway, yeah, he thought it was easy. Like there are so many desperate attractive single women out there that they should just be falling into my lap-- which they should be, in a just world. But of course not. And I thought-- I mean, he's gay. There's a reason all the billboards in my neighborhood say "DRINK THIS BEER" or "SEE THIS MOVIE," and all the ones in his say "GO GET TESTED FOR AIDS AND HEP C." l thought you guys just looked a stranger in the eye, maybe shook hands, and then went and fucked rawdog up against a urinal. I thought all gay men fucked all other gay men, that they lived in a world where everybody could just acknowledge that they're horny and, you know, everybody could just fuck. And they all hang out together and there's tons of fresh meat being pumped into the social circle at all times, fresh young boys coming to LA to get away from their overbearing Iowa sheriff father constantly telling them they're going to Hell. I thought the gays had it easy.

But of course they don't. Because where I see tons of dudes between the ages of eighteen and twenty nine down to fuck at all times, they see bald, or pudgy, or stupid, or annoying. They see pain in the ass queens who listen to Lady Gaga, which even some gays will agree with me is novelty music for retarded children. When they go to the grocery store they see that all the guys are straight, or the gay ones are fat, or have boyfriends, or can't hold up their end of the conversation or etc etc. And so in this sea of oversized eligible cock they see nothing. We both see LA as the same dry hole, requiring us to claw out a piss-trickle of muddy silt to slake our sad desperate needs.

And they see tons of chicks around them, but they aren't seeing them with a discriminating eye, because if gay guys could tell what's beautiful we wouldn't have gangly freaks with collarbones like pterodactyls in all our magazines. So they see tons of chicks, and they're not looking for signs that the girl has a boyfriend; they don't hear it get dropped in the first sentence of conversation; they don't see that these girls are just bland useless dishonest pains in the ass, because they're not paying attention. To him who doesn't want pussy, the universe is swimming in pussy.

And it must be like that for girls too. Because they see their friends who can't get dates and you know, they're eligible, right? Only the most jaded and hardhearted girls can see that their friends are fat boring whores. So they must think there's this giant glut of great pussy out there, because hey, she's single, I'm single. And they don't see the same masive tsunami of cock I see when I go out because they're only seeing the guys they give a shit about. Not the short guys, the bald guys, the shy guys, the unfashionable guys-- those guys are invisible to them. They can walk into a bar that's 90 per cent male and say "there are no guys here!'

I wonder if I do the same thing. Are there women all around me and I don't notice them. Women who-- like, I say I want a girl who can make a snappy comeback, who knows about all kinds of nature and literature and shit, but what I really mean is: I want a girl who is like that but who is also under 25 and has big tits. I want a girl who is like that but also has pretty eyes and a small nose and doesn't take antidepressants and basically has no shortcomings but I want her to have the perspicacity to see past my shortcomings. Because I'm so god damn fucking special. Like when women say they want a guy who is kind, spiritual and smart, what they mean is a guy who is over five feet ten who is these things. Or better say five feet eleven because guys lie. I want a guy with a job I can tell my friends about who is these things. I want a guy who is not bald who is these things. That's why this big city thing kind of sucks, you have so many options, you know, you just whittle them down until they seem to be nothing.

OKCupid Reader Mailbag: how to be attractive to women

2011-07-06T23:21:00.001+04:30

(REDACTED) asks:

Long time lurker, first time poster. Needless to say, I love your writing. My question is, "As a guy, what should I do short-term and long-term to increase my attractiveness to the opposite sex?" Please answer the converse question about what a woman can do to increase her attractiveness. Don't give obvious answers like "hit the gym."

Well, look, do hit the gym. Don’t forget how shallow women are, in case you think they’re not. Women are great about systematically lying to themselves and everyone else about everything, and they have this collective con set up where we think they care most about confidence, personality, etc. Women and men are much more alike in shallowness than people seem to think-- women like a chiseled jaw, a small nose, pumpkinseed shaped deltoids, visible obliques, etc. etc. The standards for an attractive male body are much more exacting than they are for women. You better have less than ten per cent body fat, which is physically not so tough but psychologically impossible to maintain unless you take speed. But get close. Do hit the gym. Make yourself look as good and stylish as you possibly can.

And then there’s the whole other part. Things having to do with extroversion and self-assurance and etc., which all boils down to: the way to be attractive to women is to already be fucking other women. I get that it’s kind of hard to separate cause and effect here-- maybe the guys who are fucking other women are just intrinsically more attractive, but— I don’t know, I’m gonna get religious here for a second: I really do believe they can “smell it on you.” Walk into a party with a hot chick and walk in solo and see the difference in the way other women treat you. Just like you have to have seed money to get rich, you have to already be getting laid to get laid.

So, if you’re not getting laid, what do you do? Basically you are starting out as a panhandler with nothing and you have to work your way up to being Bill Gates- what the fuck do you do? Well, step one is handled: get on the internet. Internet dating is the greatest invention of all time— better than the wheel, the internal combustion engine, fusion, etc. Fusion never got me any ass. Get on the internet and start by fucking a couple women who are less attractive than you.

Just like you have to go on a couple “warm up “ interviews for shitty jobs you don’t want before going after the big one, you have to have the date-to-fuck process down by rote before you can go after an actually attractive woman. Go find a girl with an acceptable but not scary-hot picture and profile, shoot her an email, get the phone #, etc. Don’t ever half ass the email; don’t use a form letter, even if you think you’re going bottom-of-the-barrel. Every element of this process is practice. First email is a two or three sentence wisecrack; she’ll email back continuing your same joke. Second email ignore what she says and ask for the phone number. Phone call, shoot the shit for ten minutes and set up the date.

Take her to a place near your apartment that serves red wine, and have a bottle on the table when she gets there. Get there early and have the chairs arranged so she has to sit perpendicular to you-- this is unbelievably important. I have never once had success when the girl is sitting across from me. Go to a place with no music, or soft music, so there are no distractions from your enthralling anecdotes delivered in a rich soothing baritone not unlike that of Walter Cronkite.

You should smoke cigarettes occasionally. If you don’t smoke, you better start, because moving the girl away from the table is key to your makeout move. You should have selected girls who smoke, or smoke occasionally, or smoke “when drinking—“ girls who never smoke are much less likely to fuck you. First cigarette break is 20-30 minutes in; lead her out by the arm to the sidewalk and just shoot the shit a little more. You can break a touch barrier here- get her to lean into you when she’s laughing at something.

Second cigarette break is when you go for the makeout. Just look at her, lean in, and kiss her, regardless of what’s going on with the cigarettes. This almost always results in a hot, passionate semi-public makeout, and if it doesn’t you have no shot and never did. Then break it off after a few minutes and head back to the table and sit down and talk like it never happened. But, now that you are smartly sitting perpendicular to her, you can kind of slip your knee in between her thighs a little. She will put her hot palm on your leg. You have a very strong possibility of a first date lay at this point.

When the wine is gone, ask where she parked and walk her back to her car. At some point you are just going to come out and ask “you want to come back with me?” No preamble, no hedging, no hesitating and filibustering when you are obviously going to ask this question. Just say it. It can be before or after further making out, but just say it. If it’s a no, keep making out with her. But don’t ask her to come back again. Keep making out and get in her car with her and odds are you will have a crazy junior high hookup where your dick will be out in a parked car under a streetlight and you’re praying that a cop doesn’t come by. Also, if it’s a no, get a second date, which is you cooking dinner at your house. Tell her you’re roasting a chicken on Sunday. Her saying “yes” to this is guaranteed ass.

So that’s getting laid, and getting laid is what makes you attractive. But in terms of getting women to like you for who you are and want to be in a relationship with you- how the fuck would I know?

OKCupid Reader Mailbag: How to suck a dick

2011-07-06T23:18:00.002+04:30

"Anonymous" writes:

I don't have any specific questions about sex, but I suspect lots of people would appreciate advice/instructions from both of you on how to...do stuff well.

Personally I want blow job advice and general advice like sounds and stuff.

Help us internet loners out.

All right. How to give a blowjob.

1) Eat the fucking cum.

Just fucking eat it. I was getting blown just recently, actually, and as soon as I started actually popping off the girl pulled her head back, aghast, and left me to nut unstimulated into my own navel. This woman was thirty two years old. An actress/ waitress. Unless she is some weird prudish aberration, she has sucked a lot of dicks. She has had a lot of cum shot in her mouth. But she pulled her head back—which means she was the kind of girl who, in college, would look you in the eye as she was about to go down and suck your dick and say “tell me if you’re about to cum, OK?” OK. They’re never saying that so they can suddenly enhance the experience by giving you an even better blowjob just as you are about to bust that sublime nut-- it’s always so they can squeamishly pull away at the last second. So they can switch from a delightful blowjob to a halfhearted and insulting handjob, because they have a girlish revulsion from “gross” things like the fluid they are trying to suck out of your dick.

Just eat the fucking cum. I don’t know why I even care about this-- when I’m watching porn and jacking off, for instance, the instant the first drop of jizz leaves my dick I am instantaneously disgusted by the hideous lube-shiny nuts waving in the camera flopping around outside some starlet’s bleached, distended asshole. But for some reason a blowjob is the only time you care what happens after you ejaculate. Even if you take it in your mouth and then get that distressed look and hurry out to spit it in the sink- no. That is half-assing it. Maybe it’s not so much part of the sexual experience. Maybe I’m just disappointed in you.

But don’t show it to me—don’t like burble it around on your tongue and look in my eyes and smile, either. This is like the sniveling office worker who’s always piping up for credit to his boss with every mundane accomplishment. Just eat it, silently, without fanfare, like it’s something you’re expected to do and you accept and while you might not be happy about it, it’s like paying the bills. Just eat the fucking cum.

2) Stay away from my urethra.

This kind of falls under the larger heading of “stay away from fancy shit.” Don’t do that tongue butterfly thing, and especially don’t do it around my dickhole. Don’t do anything around my dickhole, ever. Don’t touch my dickhole, don’t think about my dickhole, don’t make eye contact with my dickhole—a lot of girls will want to showily flick their tongue around because they’ve seen it in porn. On the rest of your dick, this feels like nothing, and then ninety nine percent of the time the tip of their tongue will slightly part the little slit at the tip of your helmet and suddenly feel like you’re getting catheterized. Don’t lick around my dick except at the very beginning, where you are saucily communicating that “I am about to give you a blowjob.” Just keep my dick in your mouth and suck it. Which brings us to:

3) Just keep my dick in your mouth and suck it.

Girls love to get their hands involved in the blowjob. They love doing that twisty handjob thing with your dick all wet from spit, and yes, this actually feels pretty good as long as a good part of your dick is also in their mouth. But they also love taking frequent breaks from actually sucking the dick and looking up at you and smiling while still doing that stupid twisty handjob—and they think this is a substitute for continuously sucking the dick. It is not. It is transparent laziness, like an employee who takes a coffee break every fifteen minutes. Ultimately I don’t give a shit what you are doing or not doing with your hands- you have no idea how to handle a dick manually and you never will. I cannot get my dick in my own mouth, and that is what I need you for.

4) Stay away from my balls.

I was reading some dude’s memoir about a gay experience in his youth. Two fourteen year old dudes rolling around playing Atari or something and the one guy reached into the writer’s pants, and he said something like “he touched my balls with a tenderness that only a man would have. Because only a man understands how sensitive your balls are.” Which, yes. You cannot understand.

I mean, go ahead and do that tongue flicking thing that feels like nothing on my balls. But don’t put them in your mouth. Don’t you dare come anywhere near them with your hands. You have no fucking idea what pain balls are capable of, with even the slightest misstep. I don’t care if you’ve given birth, had third degree burns over ninety per cent of your body, had a compound fracture with your thighbone sticking out and then a hyena came and chewed on it and his tongue was made of fire ants—you have no fucking idea. Playing with my balls is like playing with nitro glycerine, and will turn shit from hot to trauma at the flick of a switch. Playing with balls, you have the tiger by the tail. You are flying too close to the sun. Etc. Don’t do it.

So what should you do? I don’t fucking know. Open your mouth real wide so your teeth don’t drag, suck the dick as firmly as you can, and move your head in a rhythmic motion up and down. If you can’t sustain this for a long period of time, jump on top of the guy and fuck him. Nothing else really has any effect-- none of this tongue shit, this hand shit-- when you are sucking a dick, you should be sucking a fucking dick. If you can’t do that, you better learn a musical instrument.

Old News: Arnold (originally posted 5/26/11)

2011-07-06T23:15:00.001+04:30

I'm gonna weigh in on this Arnold Schwarzenegger thing. Even though it's been done to death. Because it's actually real simple. Women's web sites are of course saying what a pig and how could he cheat on her, etc. And reactionary sexist sites for men focus on how could he do it with someone so ugly. The latter group has to come up with these baroque explanations of why he would want to bone a woman who was not as hot as his wife.

It doesn't fucking matter. Hot, not hot-- does not matter. What matters is new pussy. Preferably new pussy that is as different from the old pussy you've been halfheartedly fucking with your flagging chub as possible. If I am dating an Aryan supermodel, I want to be fucking an elderly black midget.

And also, new pussy that you are forced to be around. New pussy that is just there. I have interns where I work.They are hired on the basis of their qualifications, not their physical attributes. Sometimes they show up for their first day and they're piping hot, sometimes I'd rather stick my dick in some bioluminescent sea predator from the fucking Marianna Trench. But still-- ten hours a day spent in a room with these girls-- eventually, I am going to end up beating off to every single one of them on a daily basis. The hot ones, it happens on day one, but even the gnarly barnyard sows, eventually it gets to where as soon as my briefcase handle drops out of my hand at home it is replaced with my dick, and I'm taking two seconds to nut over the thought of this beast bent over her desk. Because when you are forced to be around someone, just-- just the smell of them. Just... eventually they are going to bend over to pick up a box of copy paper and you are going to see the top inch and a half of their ass crack, and notice that it is unsullied by moles or hair. That it's actually quite a nice crescent of snowy white skin between the bottom of this girls's H & M designer knockoff professional dress shirt and the top of her jeans and.... God damn. God damn, I just want to fuck that ass. Eventually beating off to even my ugliest intern gets me off faster than porn with some modelesque chick on her eighteenth birthday.

This is because of the realism of the masturbatory scenario. Because it could happen. And that's what was going on with Arnold and his maid. He noticed that the sunlight when she bent over to water a plant or something, the sunlight was glancing off the top of her titties, and he could see just a little sliver of brown nipple. So different than Maria's, maybe a fat puffy nipple-- I picture Maria having those weird wormy long ones for some reason-- and he went back into his bedroom and popped one off, thinking about how it might happen. Maria takes the kids to soccer practice. Alone in the house; bump into the maid in the laundry room... and I bet he jacked off to this a million times before she made some kind of meaningful eye contact with him that said-- shall we? He beat off to it because it was there, and plausible, and then when he had a shot to actually make it happen, well-- it's really fucking hard to turn down the reality version of something you've beat off to a thousand times. It's like watching the director's cut of a movie you've seen a bunch-- you are entertained merely by noticing the differences.

And then he impregnated her. Of course Jezebel commenters and the like are barking at him for not using a condom-- really? Listen-- NOBODY FUCKING USES CONDOMS. No one. If you use condoms, you are the only fucking person on the planet and you are just torturing yourself and your partner because they're terrible. They make it feel like your dick is made of scar tissue.

And he nutted in her. Which, this is where Arnold and I part ways, because while I always beat off to the idea of nutting in a girl and making her pregnant, usually against her will, and while I am fucking chicks, which once again is always rawdog one hundred per cent of the time, I am thinking up until the very last microsecond that I am going to nut in her and impregnate her-- I ALWAYS pull out in time. I always have that last second of sex-ruining conscientiousness and pull out and sheepishly nut into my boxers. That last little bit of control which keeps me from truly enjoying any sexual experience.

I guess Arnold doesn't have that, which-- more power to him. If I had enough money to be blowing loads in maids and supporting the children secretly without even making a fucking dent in my checking account you better believe half the Earth would be covered in half Mexican dudes that look like me. If I had a wife who needed to keep her fucking mouth shut for a decade or risk losing everything, risk having to have one of those Eliot Spitzer press conferences where she sourly stands behind me-- if I had a wife that had to shut the fuck up, every piece of menial laborer pussy on the west coast would be fat with my young at all times.

Just saying.

To my future son

2011-07-06T23:14:00.000+04:30

Never have a job you have to explain. Just like you should never have a Halloween costume you have to explain. Your whole life just becomes the same fucking conversation over and over.

Diary 5/9/11: an actress

2011-07-06T23:13:00.000+04:30

I need to jack off, to that chick (REDACTED), whatever the fuck her name was. She showed up to dinner with (REDACTED)'s parents wearing dark gray yoga pants and when her legs hit the right angle you could see the outline of her vagina.

She is hot. Skinny, in good shape, perfect bone structure hot. In her youtube videos she looks merely “quirky hot,” like, her face looks a little fuller and her teeth look like a mouth full of jagged chiclets and she just, you know, looks like the kind of chick you would see across a room and think “that chick is kind of hot. Maybe I have a chance.”

Then in person it is clear she is the kind of chick with whom you have no chance. She has that sleek, lithe build like a lemur, or one of those whippet-looking marsupials that just went extinct-- the thyalacine. A thyalacine I want to fuck.

Actress. She is an actress. Not the witty type of actress whom I could latch on to with my superior intellect and impress, but rather, the laid back, into astrology and yoga type of actress, who is basically more primal about her mate selection. She will date a muscular, good looking dude who has a job tending bar at La Poubelle and rides a motorcycle. She’s one of this special L.A. class of people who has no job and is preposterously good looking and, lives, you know, I just picture that they hike, do yoga and fuck all day. They just have hot yoga sex with their perfectly lean bodies and perfect skin, and just the right amount of tan, and white, straight teeth, and perfect bone structure where you don’t have to loook past some flaw of theirs. There is no flaw. These people, they’re all broke so they live in houses with one another and conglomerate into huge social circles full of hot, underemployed people, who all meet each other easily and casually at parties and may not fuck right away but can see each other at a couple parties over the course of like a month and think “hey, that person is kind of hot, maybe I’ll get a chance to fuck that person one day.” And then, you know, that person breaks up with their boyfriend, or you end up talking to them so much at these parties that you can casually ask them out for a coffee-- these people can do a coffee date; they are free at three in the afternoon— and then go home while it’s still light out and have hot well-lit yoga sex admiring the other party’s perfect musculature and skin in the afternoon sunlight. These people are in the Serengetti of pussy. If you don’t get a chance with one wildebeest, another will come along. I am a crippled old mountain lion living alone on a cold, craggy mountaintop, and if one half-starved deer ever makes its way up to the barren snows I better jump on that shit immediately, for all it’s worth, because another deer might not be coming.

Why I Love Douches

2011-07-06T23:12:00.000+04:30

I told a couple people to come to a pool party I'm going to at some Hollywood club. They said no, it would be "douchey."

This is accurate, but what people need to understand is that douches fuck. Douches dress like douches because there are girls that like to fuck douches, and girls who hang out with douches like to fuck. They don't like to read David Foster Wallace and discuss vegan restaurants; they like to fuck.

Things like education, high degree of literacy, political engagement, etc. etc., are all negatively correlated with fucking. The worse you were raised, the more you fuck. And a douche is just a working class or poorly-educated nouveau riche person in a large city, who ornaments himself in a way that will be most effective at getting him fucked. He is not preoccupied with obscure records or signing petitions to the Ugandan government or any of the other shit that these liberal arts types will belabor endlessly.

Douche chicks get drunk and fuck. They get hammered and pull their bikini bottoms to the side and let you slip it in rawdog in the pool, provided you have taken care to spend thousands of hours in the gym giving yourself pumpkinseed-shaped deltoids. So these are the people I would rather spend a Saturday with, by a factor of about one million billion, than a bunch of MFA candidate chicks who will not even look at you unless you have a huge enough beard to indicate that you could not possibly be employed and therefore must be in a semi-successful band, or that band's equipment manager. Some third-tier hanger-on of Sufjan Stevens. However you spell it.

Anyway. Give these douche parties a shot, is all I'm saying.

Hollywood

2011-05-09T22:23:00.003+04:30

I might lose my job. As a weenie Hollywood “development executive.” Which, fine, I fucking hate my job. Work work work all goddamn day and then come home and read scripts, garbage scripts that will never amount to anything, but I need to read them to preserve relationships. Relationships that will never amount to anything. My job completely eats my life, leaves me a wrecked, miserable shell of a man each day, destroys any chance of my spending time with women and friends, and it doesn’t even fucking pay anything, so fuck my job.

The problem is, after 7 years of doing this-- answering phones, learning names, mastering the bizarre mandarin etiquette and arcane structure of Hollywood-- I am now only equipped to do this one thing that I hate. I have no choice but to pursue another, similar job. Which, there are two reasons you would want this: to make movies, and to impress girls. Making movies is impossible, and if you have one of these gigs you’re not even around girls enough to impress them. That’s why guys like (REDACTED) have to stock their reception pool with hot young USC pieces of ass-- it’s the only exposure they will have to a woman. Most of their life is spent hobnobbing in rooms full of jowelly old William Morris agents.

You are working nineteen hours a day, because everybody wants to get into the movies. Everybody wants to get into the movies and has to outcompete each other by hustling more, working more, we gotta do more with less, and people are willing to get out there and wade through the mountains and mountains of shit that other people who want to get into the movies on the acting, writing, management and agency sides are putting out there, out hustling over piles of shit because there is nothing good left-- everything good was snapped up by some jowelly old dude, or some famous person’s son.

Anyway. I am not equipped, now, to do anything but this. My skills and knowledge are so specialized that I’m the weird bird of paradise who can only subsist off a particular nut that grows on a particular tree in New Guinea which is nurtured by soil enriched by the chemical signature of a particular volcano. And I can only build my nest out of a particular anteater’s solidified dung, which dung is digested from a particular berry, and etc. etc. And now global warming is happening and this berry got a fungus and the whole fucking jenga system is falling apart. So unless there is a glut of low-level Hollywood development jobs at the exact kind of place I have already worked for the past several years, which there will never be, I am fucked and unemployable.

Better to be the pigeon, than the bird of paradise. Better to be able to live off discarded french fries or chewing gum or old ladies’ bird feeders or whateverthefuck, and build your nest in a stop light. Learn how to weld, or wire houses, or some other skill that people will always need. Learn how to turn hand made wooden furniture on a lathe. Although my shirt collar would just get caught in the thing and it would rip my fucking face off.

Diary 4/2/11: David Foster Wallace

2011-05-09T22:23:00.001+04:30

I got the new David Foster Wallace. It doesn’t come out for a few weeks, so, I got it early. Because I am the type of person who can call swanky book agents and request early copies of high profile books because I can pretend I am interested in making it into a movie. So now I am taking this book everywhere. Hoping someone will notice. Hoping someone who is a) attractive, b) a woman, and c) between the ages of 18 and 33, will know a) who David Foster Wallace is, b) despite the fact that he is dead, he has a new book coming out, and c) that this book does not come out for two more weeks and therefore this man who is carrying it must be interesting and important.

This has never worked in the past. Particularly not with my galley of THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING that I conspicuously left on my end table for months before it was published, taking care to write the name of the book in sharpie on the unmarked ICM covers. Even though everyone says they love Joan Didion.

I think, for this to work, it would have to be something by David Sedaris. All girls say they love David Sedaris. In fact, every single girl in the entire internet dating universe lists their favorite book as “anything by David Sedaris.” So now I will have to find out when David Sedaris has a new book coming out, procure a copy from his agent for film and television rights consideration, and walk around town with whatever side says (book you’ve never heard of by David Sedaris,even though you love David Sedaris and know about everything he’s ever written) facing out, and then make quick eye contact with whatever attractive woman happens by and squints briefly in puzzlement at the cover. Which sucks, because Sedaris just had a new one, that one about animals, and he only comes out with a book like every three years.

Women of OkCupid:

2011-04-29T22:46:00.001+04:30

Why are you all so god damn fucking boring?

There are about 3 profiles of single women in the greater Los Angeles area that reveal ANYTHING about the person whatsoever. The rest, you are browsing this shit and you feel like God only made 5 people.

There’s the I was born in Wisconsin, went to school in Pennsylvania, came out to LA three years ago and haven’t looked back! The geography person. Who the fuck-- we all live in America, we all watch the same TV shows, why the fuck do you think it matters one iota what state you came from. Unless it’s some weird shit like Alaska or Wyoming, this is genuinely the most meaningless information in the world. Even if you came from one of those places. I’m not looking to get a state drunk and rawdog them; I want to do that to a person.

There’s the “contradiction” person. This might be the blandest one of all. I initially appear really shy and introverted, but once you get to know me I’m the life of the party! (This one often enjoys exclamation points). I’m a traditional girl at heart, but I think outside the box! I’m a girly girl, but I love sports! I can be really nice and really mean! I love reading books but I also enjoy trashy reality TV-- shhh, don’t tell anyone! Jesus-- these fake examples I’m coming up with are actually more illuminating than the real thing. This one is a deliberate construct that is designed to tell you nothing.

There’s the I-wont-tell-you-anything-about-me-but-I’ll-spend-thousands-of-words-telling-you-the-type-of-person-I-don’t-want-to-date person. It’s either the “I’m done with liars, cheaters, abusive guys, guys who do drugs, etc.,” which means she will only fuck you if you are a drunken lying cheater who smacks her around. These ones often have kids, by lying cheating abusers. Then there’s the You should message me if: “DON’T message me if you wear Ed Hardy!” Ha ha ha Ed Hardy! How fucking stupid those Ed Hardy people are! I look down on shit that looking down on was played out in 1998.

And then there’s the worst. The worst. Which is: My self summary: “Ask me in person!” Or the postmodern “it’s too awkward for me to write a self summary!” Look-- how are you people even fucking employed? How do you write a cover letter and resume? Do you say “it’s too awkward for me to write this cover letter! Tee hee!” These are people who say truly exactly nothing. To you, I say: I need you to admit something to yourself, that you are too much of a loser to meet someone in real life. We all are. There is something wrong with every single one of us on here. Either we are ugly, or fat, or awkward, or weird, or whatever. Or we made a lifestyle choice that precluded us from meeting mates in the natural, normal way, which is just as bad a flaw as any of those inborn traits. Because that shows that your life priorities are so fucking out of whack that you put absolutely no thought into what kind of life would actually bring you companionship and happiness. You failed at the biggest decision a person in modern society can make. This fucking shit, this internet dating-- this is the island of misfit toys. The very fact that you are even on here means there is a huge chance that you are so deeply undateable that you will die alone, your bones gnawed by starving pets. So you have to suck it up and actually put yourself out there.

The least you can fucking do is write a profile that tells me whether I’d be wasting my two hours and forty dollars going on a date with you. The least you can do is fucking GIVE ME SOMETHING, you chickenshit. You are guarded because you think you are going to get messages from weird guys; you don’t want them to know anything about you. YOU ARE GOING TO GET MESSAGES FROM WEIRD GUYS ANYWAY.

Just-- sit down at the computer, make your fingers move for fifteen minutes, blast out a couple pages of bullshit, and then go back and cut and paste it in Microsoft Word until it fucking TELLS ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOU.

There. Was that so hard?

Dick Extender

2011-04-29T22:40:00.001+04:30

I totally get why women get ridiculously huge breast implants. Because if such a thing existed for your dick I would get one immediately and it would be huge. A cartoon. It would be the dick some girls talk about when they are transparently trying to console you about the fact that your dick is not huge, the “you know, I don’t really even like huge dicks. Sometimes it’s just not even comfortable.” I would get that dick. Because she would talk about it. She would say to her girlfriends “you know, Jesus, it’s just too big; I don’t even want to fuck him sometimes because it hurts.” And the girl she was telling- it’s not like I picture her immediately wanting to fuck me, but maybe she would just want to see it. She would just be curious.

But the best you can do is something like this. Apparently if you hang those weights off your dick, or whatever this device does- basically this study found that certain kinds of mechanical penis enlargement actually work. They will extend your flaccid penis by a tiny but non-negligible amount after using the device for six hours per day for like six months.

And it goes on to point out that you are not actually adding any inches to your erect penis. And you are not adding any actual girth, just a hairsbreadth of length. Still. Still, I would do it. Obviously it would be preferable if it were adding a huge amount of meaty pussycrushing girth to your erect cock, but I would take the extra three millimeters of flaccid length. Because why not. I mean, I am never embarrassed by the size of my boner, which is quite reasonable, but I am frequently embarrassed by the laughable dimensions of my flaccid cock whenever any kind of dick-shrinking force is applied: e.g. the air drops slightly below room temperature; I take any kind of recreational drugs, etc.

Most times in life that people actually see your dick, it will be at its smallest. How many people are going to see you walking around with a full erection in your lifetime? Maybe two hundred, if you are at the very outlying end of the bell curve of master cocksmen. How many people are going to see you getting out of a cold pool in thin trunks? Thousands. When’s the last time you were naked with a group when you had not taken cocaine or acid or ecstasy or some other turn-your-dick-into-a-grape type substance? Never. I would take the extra three millimeters of flaccid length just to guarantee that my dick would never turn into an acorn head in front of a crowd again.

And you do, as a guy, actually go through the majority of your life thinking your normal dick is tiny, because you do get your idea of average dick size from porn. Or from locker rooms, where the dudes who walk around with their dicks swinging out are the ones hung like yaks, and the guys with small, or even average sized dicks, are quietly fumbling to slip on their boxers as fast as fucking possible, almost humping the wall of lockers to shut off the line of sight to what they think is their shamefully puny dick.

And my concept of dick size is still skewed. I mean, the average fully erect dick length is like five and one quarter inches, or five and three quarter inches or something. Does this not seem small to you? Like the average IQ being one hundred- can you imagine half the people in the world being stupider than the average human being? Can you imagine half the men in the world having a dick shorter than five and one quarter inches? And I’m told that one in one hundred men has a dick seven inches or greater in length, which means the standard deviation is something like an inch. Which in turn means one in one hundred men have a dick that is three inches or smaller.

This is the thumb dick you hear about, when you have a standard-issue white person’s penis which a girl, God bless her, is trying to assure you is adequate. This one guy, it was literally the size of a pinky! It’s never something they’ve seen more than once; it’s always just this one guy. Every girl on the entire planet has dated exactly one man with clinical micropenis, who had just a child’s thumb barely poking out of a thatch of pubic hair like an earthworm emerging from the soil after a few drops of rain. Like a tiny baby opossum blindly crawling to its mother’s pouch, slimy and naked and petal-pink.

Balls

2011-04-19T01:39:00.000+04:30

Balls are nature’s greatest mistake.

Your heart, for instance, is obviously an important organ. So what does nature do. It’s behind a wall of muscle and bone, centrally located where much of its work can be done by gravity. Similarly, your stomach is in behind your abs where it would be a real fucking chore to eviscerate you and get it out. Plus all the movement of your midsection helps with peristalsis. This is great engineering.

Notice that neither of these things is hanging off the side of your gut in a veiny membranous sac covered with long gross hairs, and so rich with nerve endings that flicking it with your pinky feels like a shotgun full of rock salt was blasted into you at close range. Neither of these things hangs in a hideous wrinkled little pouch that anyone could lightly tap and it would incapacitate you for hours. Your brain is not dangling six inches off your body on a hot day to the point where in loose pants you could snag it on the corner of the coffee table and kind of feel nothing for a few seconds until suddenly wave after wave of nauseous burning agony washed through your gut and you could literally do nothing but lie curled up groaning on the floor for the several minutes until it went away. So why the fuck does a nut sac exist?

Because, they say, your body can only produce sperm at cool temperatures. That’s why nature designed this ingenious distending-and-retracting sac, to keep the sperm producing machine at a balmy ninety two point whateverthefuck degrees. Because that’s what it is, like 92 or something. IT’S IN THE SAME FUCKING BALLPARK as your body temperature. We’re not talking about how sperm is some unique cell that can only be produced below freezing and we all have to walk around with our balls in a thermos of liquid nitrogen all day. It’s JUST BARELY DIFFERENT.

Which seems easier to you? a) slowly design a mechanism over millions of years where the reproductive apparatus hangs in a soft defenseless pouch of skin that miraculously pulls up or drops down to keep the precious sperm in its spoiled little temperature range or b) keep the most precious part of you that encapsulates the whole purpose of your life on Earth and protect it INSIDE the fucking body. MAKE THE FUCKING SPERM SO THEY CAN LIVE AT 98.6 FUCKING DEGREES like EVERY OTHER CELL. Like trillions of microorganisms that live symbiotically within our intestines, etc.

Are you telling me this couldn’t be done? Nature made whole ecosystems that live like 300 atmospheric pressures deep in undersea cracks in the Earth, where literally the sun could not exist and they would be fine. They feed off caustic magma and like ammonia or something; there are worms that thrive in 400 degree geothermally-superheated water; clams that feed off the worms, etc. etc. There are bacteria in Mono Lake that make their DNA out of arsenic. Little lichen bugs that they launched into space with NO protection, just exposed them to the vacuum and radiation of space, and when they got them back to earth they PRODUCED VIABLE OFFSPRING. You’re telling me you can’t make a sperm cell without this fucking veiny, musty lawn and leaf bag hanging 8 inches under my dick in the summer? Or you couldn’t at least give it like an armadillo carapace so that I don’t live in terror of a fucking wayward Frisbee making my future kids retarded?

I mean, look, whatever. I’m sure nature had her reasons. My real beef is that when you have a standard-issue white person’s dick and larger than average nuts, which I do-- you end up having a package in your pants that looks like when they show you the size of Jupiter next to Earth at the planetarium. Unless I’ve literally been fucking a snow bank my nut sac is never smaller than a Hefty® Tall Kitchen Bag, but my dick goes all clinical micropenis at the first sign of a stiff breeze. The colossal nut sac becomes the dominant visual in the frame and the poor girl who is already making the mistake of sleeping with me is confronted with this giant varicose brain coral with long reddish, and occasionally white, corkscrew hairs coming out of it. A thing that pulsates on its own, seems to sigh as it bloatedly expands right in front of her— a grossly infantile pink membrane-flap filled with H.R. Giger tubing and weird impossibly delicate alien-looking mechanisms, teeming with little microscopic snakes, swarming, swimming…

Just think about it. The word sac. Ugh.

The Gays

2011-04-19T00:10:00.001+04:30

Someone stole my underwear at the gym.

It’s a West Hollywood gym, where lots of huge gay muscle studs work out. So someone stole them to sniff them and jack off, I think. That was the first place my mind went, after I fruitlessly searched through my fucking bag for them like Tel Aviv airport security going through some Palestinian college kid's backpack. Someone stole my underwear to sniff ‘em and jerk off.

I can feel no moral outrage about this, because a warehouse full of underwear would have to be stolen from me, sniffed, and jacked off into before the cosmic scales are balanced. I used to do this same shit all the fucking time. When I did coke, getting down to my last couple bumps, I knew I would be up for several more hours with no drugs left and a crazy desire to beat the meat, and I would go to my building’s laundry room and raid the lost and found shelf. Nine times out of ten there would be a pair of panties there. If I was lucky, it would have been one that tumbled out of the laundry basket before even going in the washer and they would still have a good head of cuntmusk on ‘em. This was when I was living on a floor full of aspiring actresses so the odds were good that I would be sniffing the vagina residue of someone hot.

Or if I was at a girl’s house after a date and I was drunk enough to do something truly sleazy I would reach into the hamper while she was taking a piss and sneak a crusty thong into the inside chest pocket of my first date blazer. Whether or not I actually scored, I knew I would be having a satisfying jack later with her taint-infused chonies draped over my face. And with luck, I’d have chosen a pair from when she was ovulating and her cunt juice was at its peak of sweetness. But either way. It just adds an element of realism. You jack off after a long drunken hookup with a chick, you have every detail of her body fresh in your mind. The taste of her skin. Add a whiff of her cunt flavor and it’s like you own a fucking holodeck.

So I get why they did it. And I must say, they chose the perfect pair to steal. Baby blue American Apparel briefs. Doesn’t get any gayer. And I had laundered them in fragrance-free detergent, and washed my genitalia that morning with some not-too-heavily scented Lever 2000, and then walked around in the 90 degree heat for a couple hours. So there was none of this Tide Mountain Breeze shit interfering with the strong healthy spice of my nuts, cock, taint and virgin butthole.

I hope they knew whose underwear they were stealing. I hope it wasn't just some random act of well, these are cute and appear to belong to someone of reasonable waist size; let’s jack off in ‘em. I hope it’s someone who has taken time to appreciate that I labor my fucking ass off in that gym; that my naked body is not unlike that of Ryan fucking Reynolds, although unfortunately with the head of Harry Dean Stanton circa 1978 grafted onto it.

I bet they knew, because the fucking gays are the only people who have ever made any kind of move on me whatsoever. The only people who have ever approached me to say I’m cute, to ask me out, to buy me a fucking drink. If I had to rely on women for this I would be convinced that I was a hideous crippled sewer mutant whose approach made mothers cover their children's eyes on the street. I’ve seen women make moves on people; I know it happens, but it has NEVER happened to me. Not once. But the gays-- the gays are always good for a slightly scary pat on the ass; for a look like a trapped wolf might give a pork chop.

And I appreciate this. Maybe women have their own way of giving cues that they find you attractive, but it’s all so subtle and esoteric and they-look-at-you-and-then-look-away-quickly-and-is-she-uncrossing-her-arms-and-biting-her-lip, etc. etc. And dude, she told me afterwards she wished you would have asked her out— yes, because God forbid SHE should do anything. There’s about one half of one per cent of all the men in the world who are the dude who is comfortable approaching women in public, and if you’re not them, you’re fucked. Women will approach a guy who looks like James Dean, maybe, but that’s it. Otherwise, they aren’t doing the work. Seventy seven cents on the dollar is way too fucking much.

But anyway: huge, steroid-laden middle aged dude who stole my underwear to sniff it and then blow a load in the taint cradle: thank you. For once in my god damn life it is just nice to feel sexy. I don’t want guys to fuck me in the ass, but god damn do I want them to want to fuck me in the ass.

You know?

You ever feel like

2011-04-16T02:02:00.002+04:30

Your whole life is just that moment when you're trying to leave a voicemail, and you hear I'll record your message at the tone. When you are finished, you may hang up, or press "pound" for further options. To send a fax, press-- and you're like, OK, fuck this. You press "1" to get straight to the beep.

But the voicemail woman cuts you off, and suddenly her tone is somehow much smarmier. I'm sorry: "1" is not a valid option. I'll record your message at the tone. When you are finished, you may hang up... and it goes again, from the beginning, through this whole long litany of options you have, such as somehow implausibly sending a fax to someone's mobile phone. Because unbeknownst to you this is one of the approximately 40% of phones where pressing "1" will not get you straight to the beep. Instead it will trigger a stern-sounding non-apology from this woman, where the voice actress completely nails the tone of someone ostensibly apologizing to you for some inconvenience, but who in her heart is only sorry that you are too retarded to know that pressing "1" will avail you of nothing. It will only force her to patiently repeat the many options she has already taken the trouble to lay out for you very clearly and now has to waste her precious time explaining again.

So she goes through the whole list of things you can do, the only one of which anyone would ever have any interest in doing is simply leaving a message and hanging up, and finally you are ready to recite your carefully prepared words. Perhaps it is for a young lady you have only emailed with off of OKCupid and you are understandably a little nervous. And you're ready for the beep. But when she finishes talking-- no fucking beep. There's just this infinite-feeling cavern of silent nothingness while the phone company ticks over four seconds worth of peak use minutes. Just the bare scratching of static, barely audible, like a faraway wind blowing somewhere over the future site of your forgotten, unvisited grave. And THEN there's the fucking beep.

My whole life, sometimes, feels like those four seconds. Chastised by some corporate shrew and then left to contemplate the nothingness of death before vainly trying to sound cool to some girl who it's going to go nowhere with anyway.

Friend in the hospital

2011-04-16T02:00:00.003+04:30

Made her this card:

Dear Roxanne: seeking a second job

2011-04-16T02:00:00.001+04:30

OK seriously- why are you doing this? Is there any universe in which you do not land one of the worst jobs in America? Is there any way this gets you enough money to help with your debt in any meaningful way instead of merely making you so miserable that you are useless at your actual job, which you attended this expensive grad school to get? You are going to be "expressing" dogs' anal glands at the pet groomer. You are going to be chastised by the most vigilant janitorial supervisor in the world for leaving a chunk of excrement in the executive washroom toilet which said supervisor discovered checking under the bowl rim with a dentist's mirror. You are going to be hauling the giant bag of the day's fetuses out to the biohazard dumpster behind the late term abortion clinic, to the jeers and taunts of protesters, and the abortion clinic will have been too cheap to even spring for an opaque bag. It will be a clear plastic bag which will on some days have a particularly horrible mutilated fetus part that will put you off your lunch, or, occasionally, a relatively intact fetus head that seems to make pleading eye contact with you from behind the plastic, and its forlorn mommy-why-did-you-kill-me look will haunt you forever. Something like this will happen. There is no one who knows you at all who doubts for one second that the second job you get will be something horrible, debasing, and destructive to all positive aspects of your life, because that is just the kind of shit that happens to you.

Don't do it.

Diary 3/27/11: Going to a Party

2011-04-16T01:46:00.001+04:30

This party. Now I’m too tired to go to this fucking party. Jesus. Too fucking tired to do anything. Woke up too early. And spent the whole day alone and now I’m tired and weird. And Leah isn’t going, and Stevie is going to flake. And no one I know is going to be there. And I can’t get drunk. Because I’m going to have to drive. And it’s going to be lame. And google maps doesn’t work on my fucking computer.

But fuck it, I’m going to go. Maybe I’ll get some ass. This chick (REDACTED). Even though she used to date Chris, I think she wants to fuck me. Or, I think she wants to fuck people. And I am a person.

But who knows. Maybe she’ll just fuck Chris. I bet she’s the only chick there, and the rest of it is a bunch of loser UCLA dudes. I’ll make a long drive, spent and exhausted, and I’ll get a DUI. I’ll get raped in jail, and I’ll get AIDS. I’ll spread AIDS to my cat (through a scratch or something; I don't fuck my cat. Much.), and my cat will die. And my dick will get cut off somehow. Somehow my going to this party will result in nuclear annihilation for the rest of the planet. That’s how bad this party is going to suck. At this party, some cold I’m carrying will combine with some other virus someone else is carrying—but not an STD, because I am definitely not getting laid at this party-- some virus I’m carrying will combine with tetanus I get when someone at this party drives a nail through my dick and it will create a supervirus that will kill the whole planet. But especially the people I love; they will die first, in front of me. And my car will get stolen.

This party will have those weird scoop shaped tortilla chips, but half of them-- no, not even half. All of them will be fucking broken. The whole purpose of buying the special scoop shaped chips will be thwarted because some fuckface will have set a ten pound bag of ice on top of the chip bag and shattered all the chips. And then what’s the fucking point. You may have noticed, aside from their special shape, those scoop shaped chips actually fucking suck as just regular tortilla chips. The corn is just flavorless and grainy. Mealy. I will be left with a bag of flavorless grainy shards that barely hold even a meek little piss-trickle of salsa water. The chip shards will not even be big enough to support a single decent sized tomato chunk, and even if they did, you wouldn’t want them to, because the salsa at this party is gong to be the bland kind endorsed in the 90’s by Chris Elliott, not some awesome Trader Joe’s smoked habañero yuppie snob salsa like you would want. Or just some fucking clam dip. Why do people put clams in anything. Why are clams ever even considered as a food to be eaten when not pulled from the seaside mere moments before. Their hideous, H.P. Lovecraft-y primitive alienness— ugh.

And the pointy, grainy chip shards will cut my mouth.

Anyway, this party. What are the fucking odds it'll be good. I’m not going to be in a good mood, because I have two states of being: in a bad mood or drunk, and I can’t get drunk because I have to fucking drive.

Maybe someone will have some coke.

Reader mailbag: Do you actually like women?

2011-04-16T01:43:00.001+04:30

"Jess" asks:

Also - do you actually like women? It seems like you like pretty girls and getting off, but I can't tell if you actually like women.

I mean, sometimes.

Sometimes I like them, sometimes I don't like them. Or rather, I like some women and not other women. I end up hanging out with tons of women these days, to the point where I am now like the annoying woman who says she can't stand other women and all her friends are men. Because she can't stand all the "drama," etc., etc.

So I like women. But then I don't get laid for a good like six weeks and I start to hate women. If I see a woman talking to another man in a bar, and she seems interested in what he's saying, I will hate that woman. I will hate that woman for falling for the same bullshit that that dude is pulling that he pulls on every other girl, that every other dude who is successful with women pulls, and I cannot pull, and I will resent her for not abandoning that successful charming dude and somehow recognizing, like, pheromonally, the true inner beauty of the marginally attractive drunk man at the other end of the bar scowling at her. And then later she will probably fucking complain to some guy like me about how that guy cheated on her or didn't call her and I will sullenly think what the fuck did you expect? I will feel like I am the guy who has to soak up some girl's tears while some other guy is soaking up that ass. I will begin to identify myself as the "nice guy" who doesn't get laid because of some deeper inherent virtue than all those sleazy guys who are actually out there getting laid. I become exactly what surly Jezebel commenters call a (capitalized) NiceGuy™-- a whiny self-pitying douche who morphs into a quasi-date rapist at the first glimpse of pussy.

But that doesn't mean I don't like women. I like women a lot, the ones I get to know. I just don't like girls I want to fuck who don't want to fuck me. There's this line between "women" and "pussy." I don't go out looking to get to know women, I go out looking for pussy. I acknowledge this is horrible, and I would like to change it, but I'm fucking thirty five years old, you know?

The only time I ever go out and meet women and deal with them as honest-to-goodness human beings is when I'm already swimming in pussy and don't care. And to get to that state takes many long slogging months of dealing with women in the most venal and disgusting way imaginable. Like a second job, selling some product you don't really believe in. My dick is Florida swampland and these girls are the gullible elderly who mailed in some clip 'n' save real estate ad from Reader's Digest.

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

2011-03-18T22:58:00.001+03:30

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

2011-03-18T22:37:00.002+03:30

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.

But I can't get laid

2011-03-06T00:27:00.001+03:30

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.

Diary 2/19/11: turning 35

2011-03-02T01:34:00.002+03:30

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.

Girls who can get off, and girls who can't get off

2011-02-04T21:54:00.001+03:30

Every few months there's a scientific study about how only point eight, or whatever, percent of girls can really get off through vaginal penetration. Something on Jezebel, or some shit, and then all the comments (that don't somehow work hating men into it) are talking about how more guys have to give better head, etc.

Virtually all girls seem to get off with me, but I accept that this is a lie. If they want to pretend to get off, and not tell me, fine. I'm not going to press the issue. If a girl gets to the point in life where she's fucking me, generally she's fucked a thousand or so guys before me and if she can't figure out how to come on a dick-- old dog, new trick. And frankly I don't care.

There are a couple girls who clearly actually get off, or at least put on such a kegel-and-light show that even the foremost expert couldn't tell they're faking. Girls who get off early, and get off multiple times. This is great, obviously, especially because if a girl pops in the first minute sometimes it's nice, for once in your life, to give in to your own urge to pop off real fast. Nothing on this Earth feels better than premature ejaculation. Nature's way.

But then there is this third category of girls who are the fucking worst. These are girls who are aware of and in control of their sexuality, etc., etc., and can get off, but just barely. Girls who can get off from head but only after 30 minutes of head delivered a very specific way with your crampy hand doing a "come hither" motion on their G spot while your crampy arm pushes down on their pubic bone just so, and if you fuck up for one second the rock just rolls all the way back down the hill. Girls who need to be on top while you are fingering their clit with your thumb and they move at a maddeningly specific and repetitive speed and angle on your cock, which is pushed up just so, and again, this has to be sustained endlessly, like holding your breath underwater. Girls who have to include vibrators. Girls who have to finger themselves-- that spidery hand down there, concentrating on not crushing it, that weird moving arm pinioned under your chest-- it's fucking distracting, and you can't fuck right, but then if you can't fuck perfectly right while she fingers herself just so she's not going to get off.

Or the girls who need 45 minutes of foreplay. My first ex fiancee who demanded that each session start with an interminable nude backrub that gradually progressed to kissing the back of her neck, etc. etc.... these girls, you start thinking: Jesus, for the rest of my life it's going to be like this. Every time I want to fuck it's going to be like building the world's biggest house of fucking cards and just-- you were not meant to get off, OK? If you had been born in any other period in history, you would not have gotten off. Millions and millions of women have never had an orgasm through sex, and yet lead healthy, productive lives. Let it go. It's like dating someone with a fetish, someone who has to shit in a diaper and have you laugh at them every time you want to fuck. You can't be with these people. Or they should quietly service your needs and then go spend six hours delicately jerking off.

It's like washing a pot, you know? The non-stick pot where one swipe of the sponge takes the grease right off is the best. The seasoned steel pot, that is never going to get clean, is second best. You can make kind of a half assed attempt and say "fuck it, this is never coming off." But the worst, the worst is that one pot that you might get clean if you vigorously scrub it hard as hell in exactly the right way for the longest period of fucking time. Nothing that difficult is really worth doing.

What now, she says

2011-02-04T21:52:00.001+03:30

We go out a couple times. We make out, maybe we bone. Or maybe we don’t, and I just never call you. Or maybe we do, and then we get married and move slightly out of town to some place where people of modest means can get a pretty big yard, and we get a goat, but the fucking thing is too loud and keeps chewing through the fence- they are surprisingly clever animals. Maybe it actually figures out the latch. But point being the goat keeps getting out and getting into the neighbor’s yard and eating his heirloom tomatoes or whateverthefuck- maybe we laugh at this. Maybe this discord with our neighbors only brings us closer together, like, us against the world. Maybe not, maybe you never wanted to get it in the first place, maybe you never wanted to move to the suburbs, maybe you secretly blame me for everything moving too fast and now you’re stuck here out in Calabasas or something and now you’re like 33 and if you leave me you’ll never have biological children, but if you stay with me you don’t know how you can stand even one more fucking second in this house in the middle of nowhere and separating the bank accounts is going to be such a god damned pain in the ass, and the goat isn’t cute anymore, it was a stupid idea, and it has an expected life span of like 35 more years but any place you give it away to might use it for meat and that would pretty much be unconscionable. You don’t want it, but you can’t get rid of it. That’s what it’s going to be like with you and me in like four years. Maybe. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t have a fuckin crystal ball.

Go lose your virginity at a whorehouse

2011-02-04T21:48:00.002+03:30

Do it tonight. Forget about it being something "special." You have been a virgin for 35 years- no matter what you do it is going to be "special."

Think of your virginity as a cancerous growth on your face. It pops up at puberty, and at 13 it's cute, like a beauty mark. But it slowly grows. By 17 it's starting to look a little weird and people that still have it are at a social disadvantage. By 20 it's malignant, with irregular borders and three huge Armenian chest hairs coming out of it. By thirty fucking five you have something that looks like it should be on Baron Harkonnen about to pop all over some poor slave and you need to get it cut off before it metastasizes to your brain.

So here's what you're going to do. There is a neighborhood in Fontana called "Felony Flats". This is about a 45 minute drive outside L.A. Basically you'll come to a whole district of cinder block buildings with big signs in front that say things like Osaka Massage and Kyoto Massage. These people will actually be Koreans, but let's not split hairs. I applaud them for not giving a fuck that we think all Asians are alike. Pick any one of these places. They all have ample parking.

The front door will be a steel grate style like the athletic cage in high school- a place your fat ass never visited, so, like the athletic cage in a high school from a movie. Behind it will be a steely-eyed Asian man with whom you might not even exchange words- he might just hold out his hand. Give him $40. Forty in the door, and you'll tip the girl sixty, but you don't do that until after the whole thing is over. The man will lead you to a small cell-like room with a bed in it. It may double as a storehouse for disinfectant and Korean Bibles, seriously. Take all of your clothes off and lay down on the bed, with a towel (provided- do not bring your Spongebob Squarepants beach towel) over your dick. It is important that you take off your clothes right away- if you don't the girl will know you have never been to a whorehouse before and may laugh at you, or try to extort you for more money. Do not ask how I know this.

In a few minutes, a young, attractive Asian woman will come in. She will smile and burble at you in incomprehensible gibberish. She will make a gesture for you to flip over on your stomach. Do so. From here on out, everything that happens will be completely controlled by her, and this is the way you want it.

She will start rubbing your back. She will give you the best massage of your life. She will run the tips of her long, straight hair over your back, buttocks and legs. She will tickle you with her fingertips the exact perfect amount so that it feels really good but isn't quite intense enough that you laugh. This will go on for a long time. You will begin to wonder: did I come to the wrong place? Did I accidentally go to a legitimate massage parlor? Am I not going to get laid? No, this is what is supposed to happen.

Eventually she will start concentrating on stroking your butt. Playing around the crack a little. Then she will start gently tickling the back of your nut sack. At this time, make eye contact with her. She will smile and make the little "A OK" gesture and then put her index finger through it, representing your dick going into her pussy. She is asking "do you want to fuck?" If you have to think about the answer to this, please think back to GHOSTBUSTERS.

She will flip you over. Her tickling the back of your nuts will have made you hard. If she hasn't already taken her dress off, she will, and you will notice that her pubes are impossibly long, black and straight. She will have a condom palmed like some magic trick and will put it on you with her mouth. Do not ejaculate.

She will start giving you what would be the best blow job of your life (or maybe the only one, who knows,) except being blown with a condom is pretty much completely worthless. Fucking with a condom is pretty much completely worthless too, but you'll find that out later with "real" women.

After blowing you for a minute she will get on top of you and guide your dick into her pussy. This is one of the reasons it's so important to go to a hooker- trying to get into the pussy when you don't know how really is like that old Eddie Murphy joke where he needs a shoehorn. She will start moving around immediately. Take a moment. You are inside a pussy. Take a moment to mentally record every tiny detail of every sensation because it is like nothing else on this planet, and you will be accessing this information many times from your spank bank later. The masturbatory mileage you will get from this alone is worth ten times the $100 you're putting out.

You are going to come too fast. You are probably going to come right away. If not, after a few minutes she will switch to doggy style, because girl on top and doggy style are the positions calculated to get disgusting hideous beasts like yourself off as soon as possible. You will ejaculate with the might of a thousand volcanoes. Now- do not get up. This is almost the best part. She will take the condom off you and gingerly wipe your dick down with tissue paper. No "real" girl will do this, although they should. No "real" girl will even angle herself slightly to the left to grab your jackrag off the side of the mattress for you unless prompted. After taking a minute to bask in the afterglow, this is where you give her the sixty bucks. Do not carry more than this with you, or at least don't show it to her. Put your pants on, etc.

There. Was that so hard? You're not a virgin anymore. Now let's work on making you less of a fat disgusting abomination.

Girls who like to get fake raped

2011-01-19T03:40:00.001+03:30

I have a friend who has a rape buddy. She texts him with a few hours notice, and at some point that night he comes over, fakes breaking into her house, and fake rapes her. Knowing her she probably screams her fool head off and is completely committed to yelling "no" and "stop" and fighting back, etc., and basically-- like, I bet she did not arrange with him to back off when she says "banana." Once she hits send, the rape train is coming to town.

Obviously, this is weird, but this is the kind of girl who had a real rough life and you sort of expect these things. Similarly my college ex girlfriend lost her virginity by being gang raped at fifteen and she used to beg me to fake rape her. I couldn't do it without cracking up. It seemed to me like the dude who studies karate and when you're drunk he says "punch me." Like, no, it doesn't work that way. How about some time in the next few weeks I'm going to come up behind you and punch you when you least expect it. Some time in the next month a van will pull up and a masked man will throw you in back and he will not stop when you say "banana." And it might not even be me. I might farm this one out. You think it's going to be me, but in fact it's my roommate McClure and I'm getting him back for that case of Yuengling he bought.

Anyway, this came up again last night because I went on a first date with a girl who likes to get fake raped. Needs to get fake raped. It came up early, as these things often don't-- I forget what we were even talking about beforehand but she came out with how she had to dump a guy because he was too much of a pussy to choke her. She was saying that it's a symptom of the decline of manliness basically-- men are too pussified to hold a girl down and smack her around, and that's what women really want. Her, anyway. To get choked once in a while and held down and fucked even if they say no. It felt like a let's-get-this-out-of-the-way-early thing. And it kind of felt like a don't-stop-fucking-me-when-I-say-no later kind of thing.

I ended up taking her home pretty quick because my ex girlfriend, who also likes to get fake raped, showed up to the bar. And unsurprisingly it got physical, and we got naked, and I got on top of her after eating her out to sneak the tip in unprotected, as is my wont. And she started saying "no" and "stop." And-- like, she hadn't explicitly said to me "I need you in particular to rape me later." She hadn't said "if I say no at your house 45 minutes from now don't stop because I liked getting raped." She said I like it, in general, when guys get rough with me, when they hold my wrists down and fuck me when I say no. And you know-- at some point her "no's" and "stop's" started feeling like an actual objection. Before my dick really went in. It felt like, no, she wasn't just being theatrical, she really didn't want to fuck. So I stopped.

But then-- is that realism part of it? Like, she sees that I'm going along with what she wants and feels freer to get into the act and really start seeming like she doesn't want to be fucked, when she wants to be fucked? What the fuck am I supposed to do? At that point I didn't even care about getting laid. It was more like, god damn, am I letting this poor chick down? You finally find a reasonably attractive guy who will fake rape you after a first date off the internet, and the dude turns out to be too much of a boneheaded pussy to fuck you when you say no, when in fact that is exactly what you told him you're into.

I don't know. We hadn't talked about it that much. It had been kind of an aside amidst other, more normal discussion about her family, work and studies. Like, yeah, I'm taking these three really cool classes this semester and also I might like it if you dig your elbow into my throat and put your weight on it so I can't grab your hand that's holding my hips down while you jam your dick in me, because I'm going to be squirming a lot, and also my dad just got a boat and maybe if this works out we can go fishing sometime. So either thing could have been true. She could be a total freak who habitually gets fake raped at the end of every first date, or she could be a normal chick who really does not give it up on the first date but happens to occasionally be into something weird with someone she trusts, e.g. not me. And in the latter case I came really close to actually raping her.

Like, if I had really raped her-- forgive me, but is there a chance she might have been a good sport about it? Given that it was a pretty predictable misunderstanding, like-- would she maybe not have been that pissed off?

I think it's more likely that it's the former. That I denied myself and her a hot sexual experience because of my lawyerlike, nebbishy thinking. I mean, for someone who had been held down squirming while crying "no" to a dude sneaking the first inch in, she seemed pretty normal over coffee in the morning.

Diary 1/1/11: I Am a Massive Fucking Chickenshit

2011-01-14T05:21:00.002+03:30

I should have kissed Anne at midnight. What threw me was her talking about needing to find a guy to make out with. This means: not you. But still. I could have done it. I ended up sleeping at her place. I don’t remember going to bed, but I woke up next to her, surprised. And I thought she might think I was her ex-boyfriend, and wake up and realize it was me, and be shocked and appalled. But no.

She was an excellent sleeping partner. She was wearing tights and would like, wrap her top leg around mine as we were spooning. And put my hand in a comfortable place near her boobs. I keep thinking- maybe I should have fucked her, but how? I would have been too drunk to get a boner at night and in the morning my mouth tasted like rotten tequila. Cut yourself some slack, dude. You don’t have to fuck everybody.

Diary 12/31/10: Never Tell Me the Odds

2011-01-14T05:21:00.001+03:30

Fuck- anyway. Going to Anne’s. I will not be fucking Anne. Right? Or I mean, what if I will be fucking Anne? That would be awesome. But I will not be fucking Anne.

I mean, she just broke up with a dude—what does this mean? Why do I care? She is not going to be my girlfriend. I don’t want her to be my girlfriend. But I would like to see her naked.

I’m excited just to spend time around other human beings. Especially chicks, who—like, a lot of my friends are hot chicks. But there is literally no chance of me fucking them. An earthquake could happen, and they could be splayed out naked, and I could also be naked with a boner and a beam from some building could fall on top of us at a serendipitous angle and force my dick into them, but still somehow I would not be fucking them. Whereas, Anne, and that friend of hers, there is merely a 99.99999 % chance that I will not be fucking them. Somehow this is exciting to me. Like, if pussy were money, I would be the guy who spends the last dollar from his welfare check on scratch tickets.

Yeah, she is never going to fuck me. But mayyyyybbbbeee… maybe if she gets really drunk, which she is wont to do, and if in the several venues we are planning to go to there is not another, better-looking and less self-loathing guy who comes up to her, and talks to her, you know, she is easy to talk to, easy to hit on, maybe if none of the hundreds of drunk, horny guys who will be out tonight spot the extremely pretty but also approachable-looking chick and hit on her good-lookingly and confidently and walk her back to her house, maybe if I manage to play it exactly right, not fuck up, not get too drunk, not get not drunk enough, spend the entire night perfectly “on” without even a nanosecond of sadness or self-doubt, which has never once happened in the three and a half decades of my existence, maybe she will fuck me. If she doesn’t get too drunk, or not drunk enough. If I don’t encourage her too much to drink and she ends up being sloppy and passing out. If none of the other hundreds of dudes encourage, or rather if all of the hundreds of dudes, cumulatively, do not encourage her to drink too much so that she gets sloppy and passes out, maybe she will fuck me. Or maybe her friend will show up and fuck me if all of the above conditions are true for her. So I actually only have a 99.99998 % chance of not getting laid.

Boners

2011-01-14T05:20:00.000+03:30

A lot of times lately I'll be, like, I'll have a hot chick naked in my bed and I'll be too coked out or drunk to get a boner. It reminds me of that Jack London story where the guy is freezing to death in the Canadian wilderness, and he gets together all the requisite twigs, etc., to build the fire that would save his life. He painstakingly gathers all this wood, taking care that it isn't too wet or green, and arranges it into a neat pyramid, all while slowly freezing to death in a blizzard, and is justifiably proud of this accomplishment, but then when he takes out the matches to set this life-saving pyramid on fire his fingers are too numb to operate them. That's what not being able to get a boner is like.

More stage fright

2010-12-18T02:28:00.001+03:30

When I was a kid in the 80’s, we used to go to ballgames at Fenway Park. And when you had to piss, it was— there were no urinals. There was one toilet and it always looked like a Dinty Moore™ beef stew grenade had exploded in it. No— you had to piss in a long communal cast-iron trough shaped like a bath tub with rusty, tetanus-y looking pipes feeding a trickle of water into it. I was like 8, and you had to stand around this thing with no less than a dozen middle aged men, all drunk, with their schlongs all out right near 8 year old eye level. And something about Boston— these were old world schlongs. The ungroomed old country schlongs of rough and brutal men. Somehow no man born of pure immigrant stock ever has anything less than a giant winking sea worm, descending back into a tangle of salt and pepper pubes that have never once been trimmed. Men of this time and place never fucked with their pubes once, in their entire lifetime. Irish guys with flame orange thickets. Swarthy, suspicious men, with Bin Laden dickbeards and brown snakey uncut sausage three shades darker than the rest of them.

I don’t know if you’ve seen a lot of underage wang, but the penis of an 8 year old white child is like a doll’s pinky finger, and beholding these veiny, hideous anacondas was terrifying. I couldn’t pee.

Anyway, cut to five minutes ago and a dude is fixing his blackberry in our multi-office bathroom. Why the fuck is he doing this there? And this bathroom, designed by horrible sadists, is such that anyone who is not in the stall taking a shit is no more than five feet away from whoever’s at the urinal with no structural blockage of any kind between them. I walk in, curiously notice him, think- “this guy doing something weird intimately close to me is going to give me stage fright.” And of course, once you think the words “stage fright,” you have stage fright. Once you think “I hope I can get a boner,” you can’t get a boner. Your dick is just too evil, and has too great a sense of irony. But at this point I’m committed to walking over to the urinal and trying to take a piss. I zip down and hold my dick for several seconds while this guy over my shoulder casually studies his blackberry. Nothing. I start to push. As is often the case in this situation, I have a fart chambered, and pushing is going to force it out. But here’s the thing— he deserves to smell my fart. When another man is standing at a urinal in silence for several seconds with you standing right behind him— when you don’t hear that fluid hissing— you are giving him stage fright. Back the fuck off. Do not acknowledge what you’re doing, just silently, courteously walk away.

This guy must be from a background so fucking manly that he has no concept of what stage fright is. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing because any time he’s ever had to take a piss— like, he could piss behind the person singing the goddamn national anthem at Fenway and a clear golden stream would come out instantly. His dad taught him to change the oil when he was five. He has eaten mammals that he killed himself, maybe with a bow. Basically he is Burt Reynolds and I am Ned Beatty and the architect of this bathroom is the hillbilly laughing hilariously while he rapes me and refers to my underwear as “panties.” If the blackberry dude knew what I was going through he would probably say “go piss sittin’ down, Susie.”

Anyway. Point being— if you are near a dude standing at a pisser and you don’t hear the sound of piss, leave immediately. Common courtesy.

The Power of Prayer: Part 2

2010-12-11T09:45:00.000+03:30

A little background. Remember the future wife? I prayed to God that I meet my future wife at the Short Stop; that night a hot chick talked to me. I went out with her, and a) I wasn’t that into her and b) I kind of blew it.

More background: last week I went out with a girl off OkCupid. She was kind of retarded, but a) really, really, really beautiful and b) turned out to be literally my next door neighbor. Like, she told me a bunch of stories about my cat. I had absolutely no interest in her as a human being, but God damn she was fucking gorgeous. One of those girls— like, beauty is just the absence of ugly. It’s impossible to describe a beautiful woman’s face. For a guy, you can say “strong jaw,” “high cheekbones,” etc. etc., or “chiseled” features, but for a girl, it’s basically— all beautiful women have the face of a six year old white child. And she does. And I took her home; it got physical. We didn’t fuck but she did get on top of me and rub the outside of her pussy on my dick till I blew a load, and I performed oral sex on her. Not in that order. But it was a win. I texted her the next day and said come over Friday and have some chicken.

Nothing back. Nothing for days. You start thinking- oh shit, did I blow it? Did I have no game, and should have waited, etc. Well, fuck that. Fuck “game.” If you even have to think about game you have already lost. I text girls when I want to see them. Or when I think of a funny text. I call them when I feel like talking to them. Which is rarely. The second you start communicating with a script and an agenda you are completely fucked; you are trapped in this counterintuitive, mercenary process, undermining yourself at every turn.

But still. She is really beautiful. And before I sent that text I had to think about the best wording. This shows I had already failed. She could smell the desperation in that text as it traveled up to a fucking satellite three thousand miles away and back down to her fifty feet from my fucking door. And so I didn’t hear back. And I started thinking— well, what if she didn’t get my text? What if she texted me back and I didn’t get it. What if, what if, what if— really? Because that annoying text from my mom came through just fine, and my text to my boss telling him I fucked something up went out and got a response fucking INSTANTANEOUSLY. No. No one ever does not get your text. You do not ever not get someone else’s text. You are a hideous undesirable loser and no one will ever love you, is what the problem is.

Anyway, I texted her again; she eventually sent an awkward rejection. Fine. I was fine sending her a second text because I knew I already blew it. When you’ve blown it, the one merciful thing is now there is definitely no more need for “game.” Text her all you want. Get it out of your system. It’s such a relief not having to try to be cool. Then she IM’d me and instantly jumped off IM before I could respond. Whatever, she is trying to say: we are neighbors, let’s be friendly. Fine. Great. But still. I keep thinking about her. When my phone vibrates, I pick that shit up like a cobra striking at a mongoose because MAYBE IT’S A TEXT FROM HER SAYING “LET’S HANG OUT TONIGHT” OMG OMG OMG!!! This is because she is beautiful. I fully acknowledge that she is a retard whom I would never, ever want to date but a beautiful girl just flips a switch. You can’t stop thinking about her.

Anyway. Fast forward to last night. I am drunk and in a bad mood. I decide to go to the Short Stop for additional beer. As I’m walking down the hill, in a moment of sadness, I ONCE AGAIN pray to God: “please let my future wife be there.” Only this time, in my mind, there is a dickish acknowledgement that the last time He answered this prayer it was subpar. At the bar, ordering my drink, I see a guy talking to the bartender, asking if he needs more ice. Remember this guy; he is important.

I head to the back room and sit down and THERE IS THIS FUCKING CHICK hanging all over the barback who asked about the ice. And I have no choice but to sit down 8 feet away from them, knowing that no one is joining me, I am the only alone person in the entire bar, and I now have to watch her being grossly intimate with the guy who I’m sure has been casually boning her and every other hot customer for six months, and FUCK, you know, FUCK. Why do I get up at the crack of dawn to suffer for nothing in an office all day when bartenders are gleefully spreading herpes to every hot piece of ass on the planet with no fucking effort whatsoever. Life is meaningless if you’re not where the pussy is.

Anyway. God nailed me on this one. I said the prayer with kind of a sardonic little asshole twist to it and He heard me, and was like: you want to mock Me, fuckface? How about some nutcrushing rejection. And then I’m going to make you see exactly who is boning the girl you’re obsessing over, and it’s going to be the exact person whom you most envy and resent, and whose life you could not possibly hope to have. Now better head home, you gotta put together the fucking company Christmas gift in the morning.

I have to admit, it was a good one. Nice work, Lord.

Game

2010-12-09T03:02:00.002+03:30

I have no game. I hate people who have game. I hate any other man who is successful with women. DJ's. Guys in bands. Good looking guys. Actors. Children's entertainers- people who have jobs writing and doing voices for Disney Channel shows. Photographers. Anyone who has not completely sold or bastardized their dream is much more attractive to women than me. Anyone who is not completely self-loathing and whose face does not look like it was hit with a shovel. I would say money, but I don't really believe it is money. Dudes with money are maybe appealing to aging Russians.

But dudes who occasionally clean their apartment. Dudes who are not so spent after 10 hours of self-debasement for nothing that they can barely struggle off the fucking couch to pour another drink. Dudes who are not nakedly and transparently hoping to rawdog you and never speak to you again, they probably do better. Not dudes who drive flashy cars, but dudes who, if their air filter had become detached, and made an incredibly loud rattling sound whenever the car was idling, and they knew for a fact that the repair was a simple matter of driving a screw through the bottom of the air filter pan-- dudes who either purchased that screw and did it themselves or took the fifteen minutes to have the mechanic right down the fucking street do it, instead of just listening to that incredibly loud thump-rattle at every stop light for over six months-- those dudes probably do better with women than me. Dudes who have traveled. Dudes who have big dicks and there is really no quality you can put your finger on that suggests they have a big dick, yet somehow you could easily pick him out of a lineup as the dude with a big dick-- those dudes. You would not pick me out of a lineup as having a big dick. Especially if it was a lineup of dicks.

Dudes whose TV and/or stereo is actualy hooked up to something so they don't have to cue up a bunch of youtube videos that take an incredibly long time to load on their shitty internet when they take you home-- although, they will be playing some bullshit, not Claude Debussy like me. Still, they do better. Dudes who are able to withhold at least for a few dates their total hatred of their job, family, dating life, personal habits, the gym, etc. etc. Dudes who do not insist on trying to make out with you right after a cigarette even if you don't smoke. Dudes who do not have a nest of giant spindly prehistoric-looking centipedes in their tiny bathroom that startle when you turn the lights on and crawl under the toilet seat where you are about to put your ass. Dudes who do not confess their belief that women peak physically at 15 to 32-year-olds. Who do not confess to repeatedly hiring prostitutes even though it's clear they were sex slaves forced over in the rusty hull of some freighter from Korea. Dudes who do not respond to tales of child sexual abuse with a "shining my helmet" gesture. Those dudes do better than me.

Not short dudes, though.

Diary 11/7/10- angry at OkCupid profiles

2010-12-09T03:01:00.002+03:30

God dammit— why are all you girls so fucking boring. This is how old I am, this is where I’m from, this is what I do-- I love my job! I love my family and friends! Go fuck your family and friends. I hope your family and friends are all on a bus and it explodes in a fiery wreck. I hope your job fires you and you are forced to suck dick under an underpass. You will wish your family and friends were there to help you out, but they will have died in a fiery wreck.

Just— you fucking chickenshits have to start showing a little actual personality. Who fucking cares what people think of you— you’re on the goddamn internet. Nobody cares.

Or— let’s just... let’s just assume you love your family and friends. From now on, let’s only make it a point to mention them if you do not love your family and friends. Everybody loves their family and friends, even me. Let’s just say something about your family if they beat and molested you; that’s the only thing that could possibly make them interesting. Even I love my family, although I would gladly trade them in for a family with a shitload of money, and my friends I end up fully replacing about every year and a half.

Diary 11/15/10- trying to remember girls I have boned recently

2010-12-07T01:57:00.000+03:30

Anyway, Molly. Sorry, but you should have been more interesting and you definitely should not have made me come in my hand. You are on fucking birth control, for Christ’s sake, and like— she specifically instructed me not to come on her— I wasn’t planning on blowing it all over her face or anything but i had to grip my helmet tightly and painfully to prevent cum from spraying all over the place. This is ridiculous. I hate how’s she’s so squeamish about basic sex acts, like— she won’t suck dick. She’s really cute and she can be really cool but also, you know, she used to be fat and is really Jewy looking and so is still insecure about her appearance, who knows.

Brooke. Brooke, I am sorry, I know you like me, and I am blowing you off. I must have been the fucking catch of the century for you, and I don’t mean that in a self-aggrandizing way. I mean that in a way demeaning of you. I wanted to go out with you because you are nineteen years old, and that made me hot, but what kind of fucking nineteen year old has saggy boobs. Apparently you used to be fat. Well, get fat again. And you live in a squalid, filthy studio in long beach and have no car, and when I sleep over it’s on a goddamn pullout sofa bed with a fucking— trying to think of a funny word for steel bar— whatever, with a steel bar pinioning you in the middle, or on your roommate’s brick-hard little futon-couch. And when you come to visit me I have to go pick you up at the train station, and then drop you off- no. Find yourself a nice local boy.

Adelina. Adelina, you are a tough nut to crack. I fuck you once, I ask you out, actually I look for you at Fuck Yeah Fest and then ask you over to dinner; both times you don’t hang out with me. Then Leah invites me over saying you want to see me, which- great. You are goddamn beautiful. I fuck you again. But then I ask you out again, like, in the car dropping you off I say we should go on a date, and you are unenthusiastic, and then later I ask you out again, and you say you can’t— and then, what? Do you want me to just fuck you? That would be fine! But God forbid you should just say that. Anyway, now I lost your number so that’s that. God, what other girls, Leeanne- who else. Before that it was Emily, right? Am I missing any other Okcupid girls? There was a another girl, Jen P., I didn’t fuck her—- I feel like I’m missing someone. Who was before that? That gobliny-looking chick who knows Josh. Big tits. I feel like there was another Mexican chick in there. Was it Diana before her? Jesus Christ, I can’t even remember- I know there’s a chick I fucked in there somewhere that I’m not remembering. That’s horrible. Leeanne was like right after the Fourth of July. Was Diana after her? Harper was before that. Emily; Emily was a good month, the chick who was looking for casual sex on Okcupid who sent me pictures of her butthole, who used to date drug dealers and whore for them, who starred in porn. Who I actually liked and hung out with a lot but when I finally introduced you to my friends you were retarded. But you live nearby, just like Adelina. Jesus, who else. I’ll need to go through my Okcupid messages.

STD's

2010-12-07T01:36:00.001+03:30

As you know, I had an STD once. It was “non-gonococcal urethritis.” This means- something is in your dick, hurting it, and we know that it is not gonorrhea. We don’t know what it is, but we know what it isn’t. Thanks science.

I took a bunch of antibiotics for it. It still did not go away. This was terrifying of course. I went to doctor after doctor, had my dickhole abrasively rubbed against microscope slides, had a guy milk my fucking prostate to test if some identifiable virus was lurking in the very most profound depths of my well of pre-cum— no. Nothing. I was terrified, but every doctor was just like: “meh.” Don’t worry about it. Sometimes this shit happens, and eventually it just goes away.

Really? Because I was told that if you get an STD you will carry it for life, infect everyone you ever look at, and then when the poor chick goes to have a baby 20 years from now its eyes will come out sealed shut with massive grapelike clusters of warts and the fucking thing will meekly flail its Chernobyl flippers before exploding and taking out 20 city blocks, and it will all be your fault. I was told that if you even think about sticking your dick in someone without a condom, a dental dam, spermicidal jelly, and the pill you will instantly get AIDS and impregnate the girl with a spider’s nest full of three-headed demons.

We were all told this, and so we all dutifully go to the testing center and then white-knuckle it for three weeks thinking yes, I definitely have AIDS, why am I even going through the formality of getting tested, I should start drawing up my will now because by sundown I will look like the Bennetton “Jesus” ad and, even worse, I will have to make a bunch of awkward phone calls to chicks I boned off the internet… God, I hope she doesn’t start talking about her French bulldog’s Halloween costume again…

And it’s all bullshit. You are not going to get AIDS if you’re not gay. Or you might, but you might also get killed by an escaped gorilla from the zoo and I think the odds are about the same. This does not apply if you’re Namibian, or Precious, but for just about everybody else: stop worrying about it.

A lot of my friends ask me, when I tell them, you know, that I sometimes get laid—you’re using a condom every time, right? NO! Of course not! Maybe- MAYBE the first time, if it’s on the first date, and the chick is skittish, but then after that night of sleeping half-drunk and naked next to each other, you KNOW at least the helmet is going in raw while you’re spooning and you have that monster morning wood. Is there anyone on the face of the planet who does not do this? Bone the girl raw with your morning wood the day after a one night stand? I mean, sometimes she kinds of snaps into lucidity and says wait, you better pull out and put a condom on. And I will comply if she’s non-horny enough to actually stick with this mandate, but all that does is ruin the sex. If you have herpes or some shit, well, we now have herpes. We might as well at least enjoy a good fuck.

Although herpes is one of those ones— one of those trump cards where the sex educator gets to say not even a condom can prevent Herpes. Well what am I gonna do, not fuck? No thanks. Even if you use a condom, you can still transmit herpes and HPV, and 70% (or some other varying but invariably huge percentage) of the sexually active population has HPV, but it never shows up, it has no symptoms and you can’t test for it-- well WHAT THE FUCK IS IT THEN? Something that 70% of people have, but does nothing, and you can’t do anything about it, and… and… JUST DON’T FUCK, OK? BECAUSE OF JESUS. I MEAN, SCIENCE.

Obviously— obviously, if this 70% of people have something that there is no way we can know whether or not we have—obviously, I have this thing. And anyone who would possibly fuck someone like me has this thing. Sorry, I have it. And now I’m giving it to you. You too will have this invisible boogeyman in your pussy. Maybe you will have cervical cancer in 2045. If 70% of people have this thing that has a real good shot of giving you cervical cancer, by then we will have guys in gas masks driving mule carts to collect every woman in America for cervical cancer mass graves.

Anyway. Let’s all admit that fucking without a condom is way, way better— like a million times better than fucking with one, and anyone who makes you use one is a shrewish spoilsport, and pulling out actually works, and if you get some bumps that show up on your dick once every couple months the only real consequence is that you can’t fuck rawdog anymore. And let’s not ruin my brief postcoital moment of not thinking about sex by grilling me about when was the last time I got tested, and do you do this with a lot of girls and etc. etc. Yes, I do this with tons of girls, no, I almost never get tested, and guess what: it’s going to be fine. Now pass me a towel.

Internet Pussy: The Cave of Forgotten Dreams

2010-12-07T01:33:00.001+03:30

I’m good at internet dating.

This means I’m good at taking a girl out, getting her a little drunk, and then fucking her. I’m good at steering the second date to dinner at my house so I don’t have to drive to get laid. I hear a lot of “I’m not usually like this” so I figure, you know, I must be onto something. Some skill I have at getting girls to fuck me that other dudes lack.*

Anyway. Point being, I am good at internet dating, and that is horrible, because it’s one of those things that if you’ve had enough practice to be good at it you’ve failed in some larger sense. Like— being good at pulling your own teeth. Being good at showing people you’re not a pussy when you show up to a new prison. It’s awesome that you’re a badass but the idea is that you figure your shit out and don’t have to go back. I wanted a relationship out of this, not 5,000 pieces of pussy. I wanted some god damn companionship. Someone I can call when the clouds are pretty or something and say, you know, go look at the pretty clouds.

Instead, I have merely gotten a ton of meaningless ass. And then I’ve taken the confidence from getting that ass and taken it into the real world to get other, even more meaningless ass. And it’s made me complacent. Maybe there is viable girlfriend material out there but I can’t be bothered to look for it because I’m driving out to Sherman Oaks to bone some nineteen year old.**

Unfortunately there is no way I (or you) am ever going to get an actual girlfriend off the internet. Never in a million years. Girlfriends happen when you are forced to be around someone. Like, she sits across from you at work. Probably she is not the hottest girl in the office but you get to talking and joking around a little bit and she becomes one of those girls where there is just something about her. You are spending half your work day ichatting with her and then by night you head home to feverishly masturbate to the thought of bending her over her desk. This is what the beginning of love is, jerking off to the same person every day. And she starts dropping hints that the boyfriend isn’t quite living up to expectations. There is some trait that is missing in him that will never be there. Something that you have. And then one night you invite her out to a party and she drives you back and follows you into your house and the next Monday you don’t quite know how you’re going to act normal around her and was it just a one time thing and etc. etc. but for fucking once it’s actually exciting to go in to the office again. Something like that.

Or you take the same class or whatever. Or you run in the same social circle. Point being that you have to be around this person for some other reason, and slowly and naturally grow attracted to them over time. Once effort is introduced— once one person has to ask out the other person, because she looked cute in the grocery store, or is someone you would totally bone and she laughed at one of your jokes at a party— once effort is introduced, game is introduced. And game is just an I-out-ignore-you contest. It becomes a delicate little war where just one little misstep and the whole thing is fucked, and you’re forced into acting off a script and not seeming too eager, or whatever. And it becomes unnatural and weird and you start to resent the other person for not texting you back, but when she finally does you are nonetheless thrilled to get a text from this person you now hate,*** and you are strategizing, and the whole thing becomes work. Like you’re trying to land the fucking Proctor & Gamble account.

Anyway. I’m thirty-four years old and employed, and I still think like this. I am turning into the childless middle-aged woman with two pugs who pathetically brags to her coworkers about the handsome orthodontist off EHarmony who’s taking her to the Ground Round later. At this age my ball sack is getting to the point where it’s full of two-headed retards, and it’s about god damn time I found a nice girl and settled down. But it’s never going to happen. If you like them, they never like you. If they like you, you never like them. And we’re designed that way. The most repulsive thing in the world to a woman is when you are interested in her. It’s fucking perverse.

*But then again, after the 10,000th time you hear “I’m not usually like this,” you start to wonder. I mean, I bet you are usually like this. I’m sure as fuck usually like this and if I had my way I would always be like this. And what’s more, why are you telling me that you’re not usually like this— do you think I care? I hope you are usually like this. Fucking strangers off the internet is awesome and we should all do it more. I don’t give a fuck if you fucked some other guy before me— I’m not your Uzbek father trying to trade you for sheep.

** Being a guy is so much about getting ass that sometimes, like- you always want to fuck, but also, I frequently find myself getting ass for the sake of being able to get other, future, ass. Like, if I get this ass, if I then run into other superior ass soon it is much more likely that I will get that ass due to the confidence from just having gotten this ass.

There is just nothing else that really gives you that bone-deep level of confidence. I can have amazing things going on in my career, look great, ripped, white teeth and a tan— I would trade all of that for the feeling when you wake up after 4 hours of drunken sleep next to some random girl you porked off the internet. When you have just torn off some new ass, there is literally nothing in this world that can get to you. When I find out I have terminal cancer, if it’s right after I got some ass, I will be smiling. Everything else can go wrong, but AT LEAST YOU GOT LAID.

***By the way, text me back, you fucking twat. I know you read this.

I shot a mockingbird

2010-06-02T06:15:00.001+04:30

I think I killed it but I don’t know. It was five in the morning. He’d been sitting right outside my window every night for months, singing. Like one of those car alarms that switches up every 5 seconds. Different songs. Not nightingale songs, either, but rather our abrasive local birds. Jays and tits. Grackles. I would turn on all the fans in my house to drown him out but that treble cuts right though. I put earplugs in but you roll around on your pillow and they either jam painfully into your eardrum or, if they’re the silicone kind, they roll out and get stuck in your hair.

I had almost made my peace with him, but then yesterday I got chewed out hard at work and had to wake up early to work on this big pain-in-the-ass project, and I was just stressed out, spending the whole night just barely on the verge of sleep. And every time I was just about to get there, here comes the fucking mockingbird. I have this BB gun, a big rifle with a scope on it leaning against the wall in the closet and the fucking thing was just crying out to me. Use me. Use me to kill this bird. This is what I am for.

So I put my pants on and went out with the gun. Pumped it up, lined him up in the scope, and shot him. He fell, struggling to fly, managed to slow himself down before he hit the ground and then even get back up in the tree again but it was clear that he was fucked up. His flight was all arhythmic and slow and he kept crashing into the branches. I don’t know if he got his shit together and flew away or what; I went back to bed. He stopped singing. There was a crew putting up a fence under his tree in the morning so I couldn’t go see if his body was there.

I keep being haunted by the image of this bird flailing, almost crashing into the ground, and then barely struggling back up. I wonder if I got one of his primaries or something. Now he won’t be able to fly properly again. He’ll be fucked up and slowly starve to death; get eaten by some animal. I went on the internet today and read about mockingbirds. Nesting season starts in February and the male just picks a spot and sings and sings until he finds a mate. If one never comes, he just keeps singing. That’s why he was doing it for so long. This bird was just like me. Just a sad, lonely bird doing the only thing he knew how to do and now he’s crippled and starving and I did it to him, because I had a bad day at work. Maybe he was just about to get a mate and now he can’t sing anymore.

I’m sorry, mockingbird. I’m sorry I killed you.

I guess that’s it.

Did you ever

2010-05-08T00:07:00.000+04:30

know someone who owned a ferret? Didn’t they always go out of their way to tell you they were the pet of kings in olden times? Always, really defensively, they would say that. Like, as if anticipating you saying “this musk-secreting weasel is going to make your house smell like taint,” they hit you with “you know historically, ferrets could only be owned by royalty.” As though somehow this makes them royalty, having this special weasel. Or like, some hot girl is going to be transported in time from 16th century Bohemia into their apartment, and see the ferret, and just start blowing them because they must be the king.

Also: have you ever known someone that had a ferret, and then you saw them again two years later, and they still had a ferret? No. Never.

Dear Sterner: The Future Wife

2010-05-01T04:30:00.001+04:30

Here’s what happened. As you know, Sterner, I despair of ever finding a mate and hate & resent that you have a live-in boyfriend. In fact I hate and resent anyone who can find a relationship.

Anyway, I was driving home Thursday night and despairing about this. I actually resorted to prayer. I said, please, God, let me meet my future wife. And I had this kind of premonition that said: if you go to the Short Stop tonight, she will be there.

Normally I would dismiss this sort of thing, but it felt different, and realer than my other crazy thoughts. Also, last time I actually prayed, it was “please, God, just let something good happen to me tonight,” and I went to the Short Stop, and a hot girl was actually there, alone, and I took her home and boned her. So God has come through for me at the Short Stop before, seriously.

So I went. I was tired, and had shit to do, but I went, just in case God was sending my future wife there. The idea was that if I sat down and had two drinks, I would meet her. So as soon as I walk in I start scouting out the talent. Fat Mexican chicks, ugly girls— one cute girl but clearly a Lesbian…. nothing. But as I’m ordering my second drink I see a really cute but just flawed enough that I might actually have a shot type chick, with a dude who is way better looking than me. I assume this is her boyfriend. But just as I’m getting down to the LAST SIP of my second drink this girl comes up and stands next to me, and asks me what I’m looking at on my blackberry. She needs to stay by the bar to give the dude, her roommate, space to hit on a chick.

So this is the fucking jackpot. A hot girl, alone, approaching me. And it so happened that I was looking at some really fucking funny shit on my blackberry- a picture of a monster from an old edition of Dungeons & Dragons called the “Squark.” Half squid, half shark. Bright red. So I immediately had some shit chambered that I could say funny, charming things about, this Squark. This was the power of the fucking LORD at work.

I talked to her for a while, went back and hung with her and her roommate, and at the end of the night I did something I never do. I got her number. And then two days later I called her and asked her out on a date. Traditional shit. Effort. Normally I don’t buy into these outdated gender roles, but this is my future wife we’re talking about here.

Took her out on the date that Sunday. We went to the Alcove, my match.com boning spot. I have been on at least a million internet dates there and I have the routine so well-rehearsed— she gets there, the chairs are arranged so she is perpendicular to me and a bottle of wine is on the table. This insures no conversational distance and that she gets drunk. What if all those other dates were part of God’s plan? All building up to me having my shit really together and not blowing it with my future wife. She shows up, is even hotter than I remembered. So far so good.

Now here’s where it starts getting off track. My future wife has no social skills whatsoever. She is a bland, unfunny Aspergian. She also appears not to find me terribly amusing. She’s sitting there with her arms crossed the whole time. But I soldier through it— this is my future wife.

Second cigarette break I go for the makeout. This is my routine. She’s into it. This girl cannot kiss for shit. And she is just, not sensual and not comfortable in her body, and doesn’t do the move where she cups my face when I grab her ass or any of that shit. Her arms just kind of get in the way, or hang meekly by her sides. Still, this is fine. I will train her over the many joyous decades of our marriage.

I set a second date for her. Dinner that Thursday. And when it comes around, I have to reschedule because I have to read five fucking scripts that I have neglected because I spent Monday and Wednesday going out with another chick who definitely does cup your face when you grab her ass and has huge titties and started doing coke when she was thirteen so you know she will make you blow the load of your life. So I had to blow off my future wife. I apologized to her and tried to reschedule for the weekend. She might be going out of town.

Anyway, here’s my question. I do not really like this chick, and have absolutely nothing in common with her. She does not interest or amuse me. But I mean, come on— you pray to God to meet your future wife, and He tells you: go to the Short Stop, have two drinks. At the end of the second drink a hot chick comes up and starts talking to you, something which NEVER happens except for the ONLY OTHER TIME you have ever prayed to God in your life. What do you do? I want to believe. And yet, I apparently don’t want to believe enough that I put aside my campaign to fuck a different hot, blonde 23 year old, and if all goes well keep boning both of them for a while, until eventually exclusively focusing on the future wife once I have the other chick’s huge, succulent titties out of my system.

But what the fuck? Is there such a thing as God? Is there such a thing as destiny? And if so, is it possible to fuck it up? Like, does God’s plan/ destiny get thrown off the rails now that I put off my work because of this chick with the tits, causing me to have to cancel on my future wife?

That’s my worst fear. That a) there is such a thing as destiny but b) it doesn’t just take care of itself, you can easily fuck it up.

Also, I totally appreciate that He sent me a hot piece of ass but why is she such a retard.

Dear Roxanne, part whatever

2010-05-01T04:29:00.001+04:30

God damn do I want a Pop Tart. Frosted Raspberry. They never have those anymore— the Pop Tart shelf is cluttered with cinnamon and fudge abominations, and glittery drag queen children’s trifles whored up with lurid florescent goo. Oftentimes the only fruit flavor is the Robitussin-tasting Cherry.

What happened to our society, Roxanne? Frosted Raspberry was the BEST ONE! But our fat, hideous children prefer the WORST flavors and have destroyed the dignity of this pastry.

You don't get

2010-05-01T04:28:00.001+04:30

a lot of birth-of-my-first-child moments in life, but in fairness, you do get a lot of “man, woodpeckers are cool looking.” Or “that blackhead went away about two days before I thought it was going to.”

Diary 2/17/10: One Drop

2010-05-01T04:27:00.001+04:30

I am afraid that I have impregnated this prostitute. (NAME REDACTED). I’m afraid that in my attempt to get off after her pussy was all loose from coming I shot the first drop in her. I don’t have a specific memory that I pulled out in time. It doesn’t help when you have a chick saying “fill me full of cum” and “make me pregnant,” when that is all you ever want to do. When it’s the only thing you ever jerk off to. God damn, I mean, at least I didn’t fully cum in her. When did I start spelling it “cum” by the way? It seems so much more erotic this way. I might have. I might have taken her word for it and just fully shot my cum in her. Then I would be living in real dread, instead of just a very minor nagging fear. I should have told her to get emergency contraception.

What happens if she gets pregnant? Do I have to have a paternity test? She fucked two guys before me that day and went on to fuck another one at midnight.

Fuck, dude. What would I do? A normal chick I could almost stand impregnating. Not a prostitute with three kids and a fucking c-section scar. But what am I freaking out about- one drop. I think it went in her dress. I’m scared because when I blew my load on my stomach I didn’t get the one drop that makes it all the way to my neck. But I think I felt that first drop go into her dress. I’m afraid because I have impregnated a chick from one drop before. That first drop, which I recently read has the most sperm in it.

She said she might get an abortion this time, if she were pregnant. So, good. There’s a toehold there.

Fuck man.

I like this chick though.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Right? I would be a good father if it were some nice normal girl with a nice normal job. I would totally step into that shit— that role, whatever. But yeah, a chick with three kids already. Like, my plan was, if I ever impregnated some woman I didn’t want to be with I could at least mostly foist the baby off on her. But I don’t want my child living with a weird hooker.

Ugh.

Anyway. Not the end of the world. What am I so worried about? What would I be losing? A life I only complain about. I would just move to a zip code with better public schools and try to make some fucking money. Plus I hear single dads get laid like crazy. You have to go to shit where you’re around women all the time. I would always be out in the park; we’d go hiking and camping. Fishing. All the shit my friends are too lazy to do. I would teach my son how to play guitar. I would make my daughter get a fucking nosejob.

Here is exactly what’s going to happen: on the day she calls me to tells me she’s pregnant I will meet what would have been my future wife. Like, instantly, a beautiful, smart, interesting woman will be put in a situation where she has to talk to me and I can slowly grow on her over time.

Diary 2/15/10: I am dating a prostitute

2010-05-01T04:26:00.001+04:30

Or at least, I have a second date with a prostitute. I’m making her a chicken. Then she has to leave to see a client at midnight. One of her guys likes to pee in a diaper and then have her laugh at him. I hope it’s him.

She is thirty years old and has three kids. Plus one she gave birth to as a teenager and then gave away. She grew up in foster homes getting molested and has been married twice. Her two ex husbands live together with her three kids that she knows the names of. She just finalized her second divorce last week but was also coming off a year long relationship with a British musician. Everyone is coming off a year long relationship with a British musician.

I like her a lot, actually. I met on her on OKCupid. I didn’t know. She’s a really good writer, which, this makes me realize I will forgive absolutely anything for that. Four kids, one of which appears to have been cut out of her with civil-war-era technology since her entire belly is hideous scar tissue, lives in Sherman Oaks and has no car, fucks dudes for money off Craigslist. I don’t care about any of that. She can put a sentence together. Actually, I don’t care about the kids and the hooking but the fucking scar is gross and will probably end up being the dealbreaker.

More OKCupid

2010-05-01T04:24:00.002+04:30

I hate people who rag on fat chicks, but fuck it. What is this “average” shit— you are clearly using the national average, when a reasonable viewer would conclude that “average” means the average for single women in their 20’s in Los Angeles. The body image capital of the fucking planet. My income is 10,000 times the national average of Haiti but I’m still broke.

Will you fucking girls

2010-05-01T04:24:00.001+04:30

quit complaining about heartbreak? I don’t even have heartbreak. Quit telling the starving Haitian kid how shitty your turkey sandwich was.

To my future wife

2010-02-17T23:14:00.000+03:30

I have been looking for you for fifteen fucking years. Different cities, different scenes. I dated a crackhead and a needle junkie, thinking they might be you. I went on dates with hundreds of girls. I went to every party, every bar, every class, every stupid fucking extracurricular activity looking for you. I was in a bunch of bands; I figured you might show up. I got a job in the movies so I would seem cool when I met you. I learned how to cook. I toiled at the gym for hundreds and hundreds of tedious hours so you would be pleasantly surprised when I took my shirt off. And still, to this day, I go out almost every goddamn night to some sadass sausage fest in the faint hope that you might be there.

So how about this. How about YOU start fucking looking for ME. Whatever I’m doing is obviously not right and I’m not going to join a goddamn quilting class or something. I’m done. I’m going to be at my apartment playing Xbox and why don’t you just show up and fucking knock. I’m tired of paying all this rent.

Also, I’m getting old and I need to impregnate you before my balls are full of retards.

Repost from my OKCupid journal

2010-02-11T23:02:00.001+03:30

How many motherfucking times do I have to tell you this. DO NOT date me. I will get you drunk and give you an STD. I will pour wine down your gullet, sneak it in sans jim hat, rawdog you again with my morning wood because we already have each other's AIDS, steal your panties from the hamper on my way out and then wear them as a mask while beating off to you after work, every detail exactly the same except I don't pull out like I am courteous enough to do in real life.

You deserve a nice man. Someone who cares about you and will call you. Good luck finding that fucker on the internet, though, because this shit is a straight up fuckfest. I was looking for companionship too, once, but internet dating is for easy pussy. Seriously, I can't get laid to save my life in the real world but with this shit I am Tiger Goddamn Woods.

They should use me in ads for OKCupid. Like, "Look, even THIS fucking guy gets laid." I am broke as the Third World and my face looks like it got hit with a shovel but you'd think I was Johnny Depp stepping off a private jet with these internet girls.

I guess they don't read the journals? I don't know.

For the one person who still reads this

2010-02-11T23:00:00.002+03:30

I just want you to know that I barebacked a prostitute who has four kids and a c-section scar that looks like it was done with a machete.

Dear Nicole,

2010-01-22T02:09:00.000+03:30

"Everyone is convinced" that I want to fuck you? Let me end this speculation: I want to fuck you. If I ever thought I could fuck you, I would fuck you. I would fuck you good. If you ever get real drunk around me when we're alone, I will be fucking you. Fucking you good. I will feel bad about it; I don't like fucking with people's relationships. But besides smacking my cat once the only thing I ever regret in life is pussy I didn't get. I'm never going to *try* to fuck you. Even if you break up with Stefan, I'm not going to put the moves on you. But god damn it, Nicole, I want to fuck you like Haitians want 6,000 pounds of concrete to not be on top of them. For the record.

When women

2010-01-13T23:08:00.000+03:30

say they "like nerdy guys," they mean a guy in an indie rock band who gets laid more than Tiger Woods, but wears the black glasses like the Central Casting nerd. And when you take them off, it's like when the "ugly" chick takes off her glasses in that Freddy Prinze Jr. movie. In other words, they're not talking about you.

The Legend of Zelda

2010-01-10T00:30:00.001+03:30

So yeah, trying to meet a girl, going out and trying to meet a girl is like, when in LEGEND OF ZELDA, you had to, to get the raft or something, you had to burn down a bush with the candle. And you didn’t know which bush. There are thousands of bushes in the game. So you just went around with your candle through each screen burning each individual bush. That’s what going out is like, only without the certainty that there even IS a raft, or a ladder, or whateverthefuck it was. Like looking for the raft without the correct issue of Nintendo Power. That’s why LEGEND OF ZELDA sucked.

Diary 12/5/09: More Nicole

2010-01-10T00:21:00.003+03:30

Fucking Nicole. I have to write about Nicole. Normally at this point writing about a girl I would say “Nicole. Fucking twat. Why haven’t you blah blah blah, why can’t you just fuck me, etc." But I like Nicole. She hasn’t done anything to fuck me over. I figured she must have a boyfriend going in and lo and behold, I was right. Of course she has a fucking boyfriend. Of course everyone has a fucking boyfriend. Every normal human being in the world is paired off with someone and only a hideous mutant sewer creature could possibly be single at the age of 33 despite being reasonably tall and in good shape and having a job that sounds cool to girls. Of course she has a boyfriend and of course her story about the way they met is some bullshit like I saw him and he looked like a nerd and so I spilled beer on him. I just saw him standing around in a club— BULLSHIT, I’ve been to a million billion clubs over a million years standing around looking like a fucking nerd and I assure you nothing that looks like you has ever spilled beer on me. What the fuck. This was probably like— this was probably the day I had plans to go to that exact same club and stand in that exact same spot but my car battery ran out or something. The same night I was like— well, I was going to go to the club but there won’t be any girls there so fuck it. You could have spilled that beer on me and then you’d be living in my house and I’d be walking around with a skinny good looking chick with big tits instead of by myself like a jackass. But I would get sick of you. The instant you brought up some shit about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer I would probably hit you. So it’s for the best.

I can’t even get horny for you. That’s how much I like you. I’ve tried to rub one out to you several times over the past few weeks, ever since I’ve had those few times hanging out with you long enough to get a “lock” on your face so it doesn’t morph into some more recognizable redheaded chick when I’m imagining you fucking me. But I can’t do it. I usually have to switch over to Seana, getting her pregnant while she’s all drunk and thus ruining her life and dreams. I should be jerking off about ruining your life and dreams. But there’s something so guileless about you. Part of me just want to wrap you in a warm blanket and stroke your hair by a fire while you cry, and tell you everything’s going to be OK.

But you know,

2009-12-09T06:33:00.001+03:30

every time you see a bunch of guys wearing some stupid thing, reflect on the fact that it is completely, 100% women's fault. Because you once fucked some guy wearing flannel, one of the early adopters, and he then went and wore his lucky shirt out every weekend, and people said, hey, look, that guy who gets laid is wearing flannel, I better pick up some flannel myself. This is why we see so many Psycho-billy guys and all the other weird subgenre uniforms. Some girl who couldn't get laid with the singer in a band fucked a guy with the same hair instead and now we all have to live with this. Dice tattoos, etc. Reverend Horton Heat is still getting dudes laid in Glendale and I haven't heard from him since he was on Beavis & Butthead.

It would mean a lot to me, Nicole,

2009-10-30T05:26:00.000+03:30

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.

Diary 8/11/09: more Seana

2009-10-12T21:44:00.002+03:30

8/11/09

So…

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

2009-10-12T08:02:00.003+03:30

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 match.com 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

2009-10-12T08:00:00.000+03:30

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

2009-10-12T07:59:00.001+03:30

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

2009-10-12T07:55:00.005+03:30

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.

4/14/09

*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.

You should message me if

2009-10-09T21:46:00.000+03:30

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.

Don't date me

2009-09-01T04:33:00.001+04:30

I have a shitload of ants in my house because I never take out the trash. I put my cat’s food bowl in a plate of water to keep them out of it. And that’s all I'm going to do. Otherwise I would have to research ant control products, figure out which ones are safe for my cat and aquarium, find them, buy them, apply them, etc. etc. Which, no. I already have a fucking job.

Every morning when I’m sitting on the toilet, a few of them crawl onto my scrotum and bite it. It really hurts. They have sharp, serrated pincers. But still. No. No more work. I’ll take the pain. It’s the price of freedom.

Plus it’s funny that they're taking tiny pieces of my ball sac back to the nest to feed their young. Maybe it’s a special delicacy reserved only for the queen.

Diary 1/3/08: Aurora

2009-08-26T05:04:00.003+04:30

Oh yeah— I was going to stop going on match.com. Because I’m bored with it. I’m bored with getting laid. I want to meet a chick who’s actually cool. Not a chick like Aurora, who bugs the fuck out of me. Not a big boned chick— a big, thick R. Crumb drawing of a chick who thinks— who wears shit like zebra cork platforms and asks me about them, clearly wanting to be told they're sexy, a chick— God, I just want a chick who doesn’t wear lacy underwear. A chick who doesn’t have a weird shaky little rescued-from-abuse toy poodle who eats its own shit and then jumps in your face in bed and breathes on you. That’s what did it. The dog shit breath. And the way she makes you use polyurethane condoms and then like— takes her hand and twists a big cold squirt of lube on them. It makes me feel like I’m having an ultrasound.

OKCupid.com

2009-08-21T20:43:00.001+04:30

EMAIL ME THE FUCK BACK, for Christ's motherfucking sake. I know in real life you get distracted, like in a bar, you see some dude with tattoos and suddenly you want to stop talking to me. I get that. Some loud guy in a band or something. But I looked at the other guys on here-- holy mother of cock, these people are fucking excruciating. No wonder they never get laid. So what the fuck? You think you're going to find someone better than me? Get the fuck out of here with that shit. Hurry up and answer my email so I can sweep you off your fucking feet, you twat.

For the one person who reads this

2009-07-18T01:23:00.002+04:30

I just want you to know that I once fucked a hooker doggystyle with a hemmorhoid coming out of her butthole. Also I jerked it a bunch to horse porn, and a couple times to a Japanese chick getting fucked by a boston terrier.

Celebrity sighting: Julia Roberts

2009-07-09T22:59:00.005+04:30

So I hershey squirted on the way to work this morning. Just as I got on the freeway. Couldn't turn around. I just sped to work as fast as possible with my ass clenched thinking: I'll pop in the (shared) restroom and rapidly clean myself up, throw out the boxers, and commando it at work. Should be fine, as long as I'm alone in the can.

I get in-- there's no parking, but I figure it out. Get in the can. Lo and behold there is an extremely dignified elderly man in a bespoke London tailor type suit meticulously cleaning his contact lenses in the sink. So I have to go in the stall and pretend like I'm just taking a shit till he leaves.

This man was very fastidious about slowly cleaning his contact lenses. Finally he leaves. I clean up-- situation is not nearly as bad as I thought. Boxers were not even streaked. But I'm still pissed, frustrated-- now running late for a very important day at work. So as I'm leaving the stall I'm loudly cursing and muttering, "JESUS MOTHERFUCKING FUCK, OF COURSE, THE ONE DAY I FUCKING SHIT MY PANTS THERE'S NO GODDAMN PARKING AND FUCKING GEORGE PLIMPTON IS PERFORMING SURGERY ON HIS MOTHERFUCKING CONTACTS..."

And I leave the restroom. And standing RIGHT OUTSIDE the door is Julia Roberts.

More Roxanne

2009-07-01T01:15:00.003+04:30

You have the body of a fetal pig soaked in formaldehyde and your teeth are like corn kernels stuck in Play Doh. But I am still completely in love with you.

Diary 3/14/09: Roxanne

2009-06-20T09:18:00.004+04:30

She got on fucking birth control for him. Fucking right away. And she told me it was— she told me she had to go to the doctor and it was some medical condition but that’s fucking bullshit. She did it for him. She did it for him and she wouldn’t do it for me. Fucking twat. She’s going to get fat. She’s going to be fat with small tits and she has horrible teeth. Her incisors splay out on top of her— what the fuck, her other incisors, jesus— this is hard, I’m not a fucking dentist. Her two very front teeth splay out on top of her two second-from-frontmost teeth, they kind of—they collapse toward each other in the middle. It’s like an old paperback book open in the middle. And they’re yellow. She’s really white and her teeth are really yellow and she gets zits sometimes and she drags her teeth when she blows you and I don’t understand why this dude is going out with her. And she doesn’t fucking drink and is extremely doctrinaire about Alcoholics Anonymous and is constantly going to meetings and then has to come home and be with her hideous, annoying pets and her house smells like cat shit. I have one cat, and he’s quiet, attractive and sleek. And he shits outside. If your pets are ugly I feel sorry for you. But then, maybe this new guy is my cat and I’m her cat, in terms of attractiveness. Oh, the stupid fucking twat throwing me out of her house on PMS and now that’s all going to go away thanks to birth control. Jesus, I hope she gets so fucking fat.

And she’s into zombie movies and low-budget horror films, and she doesn’t talk about books or art or classical music, and her thesis is on like the Tennessee film commission, which I think is stupid but whatever you’re into I guess.

She’s fat and stupid and I hate her but she has such pretty eyes. And a great sense of style. And she’s just generally fun to be around. And if her being fat bothered me I guess I wouldn’t be boning a bunch of other much fatter chicks.

Anyway, she got on birth control for him. Because she loves him and she didn’t love me. She probably sleeps with him all the time; she would never sleep over here. Fucking twat. Die, die die, you horrible stupid twat. Also, get back together with me.

Also also

2009-06-12T02:26:00.000+04:30

a vestige of my cocaine-addicted compulsively-masturbating past is that part of me is constantly on the lookout for everyday objects that can be used as artificial vaginas. For instance, we just got flowers shipped to the office with a freezer pack to keep them fresh, and it has melted into a bag of fleshlike gel, and I'm stealing it to take home
and fuck tonight.