June Twenty-Eight: Stabbed In Sacramento and Now I Post on MPC

I went to the ocean. I climbed a cliff and got screamed at by the Osprey nesting at the top. I picked some mussels off a rock to eat later, slipping off the kelp-covered rocks and getting my shoes wet in the process. I swam in the freezing North Coast water.

I did this instead of going to the White Power rally down the street. All around midtown there were these Antifa signs about “smashing Nazis” and “keeping hate out of OUR CITY.” I tore a few down because I hate Antifa. They’re these punk kids who protested the Roosh meetups. I went and talked with them. There was one dirty guy in his thirties who was on a long spiel about some Communist history stuff that I couldn’t follow. It was clear that he was banging the shaved head girl next to him. Nice. This one fat guy said Roosh was a rapist who wanted rape legalized. “Wasn’t that from a satirical article?” I asked. “If it was satire, do you think we would be here?” Clearly you would because you people are fucking idiots. I’m here trying to empathize and have a dialog and all that bullshit and all I can feel is contempt. Your minds are addled with clickbait; the internet has emotionally manipulated you into standing in this park at night in hopes of virtue signaling against guys trying to get pussy enough to get some pussy for yourselves. Thanks for bumming me a Camel Filter anyway, faggots. I wanted to see the skinheads beat up these aging punk kids but I didn’t and now it’s all over the news because people got stabbed. I decided to throw away my cigarettes and go spend time with my family at the ocean and I missed out on all the violence.

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March Thirteen: Love Sick

Fall, Two-thousand-eleven:

I sat on the left side of the bar at the Golden Bear alone. I was texting this very fly girl I had met a few days prior about going to a black-and-white attire party that weekend. I was setting up the logistics of a couple more dates on my BlackJack II (a true man’s phone) when an extremely petite girl with dirty blonde hair sat down next to me. She had a Teutonic face with an Italian nose and carefully curled hair with bangs – she was pretty in a nature’s child kind of way. She ordered a High Life ($2.50) and I delivered a stolen line to her saying she “looked like she was having the most fun out of anyone here.” “What?” she replied. She didn’t hear me. I’m not sure how our conversation proceeded but soon we were outside having a pleasant, flirtatious chat. I didn’t think of her as a real prospect. She was just a girl to chat with that night. I took her to another bar (“You’ve never been to the Stinky Old Tavern?”) and we drank and she smoked and we talked for a couple of hours. She became drunk but she was still coherent and enjoying herself. She had taken some Xanax (pill addict of sorts) and was soon wobbly, so I took her home. She let me into her nineteen-twenties apartment (gas heater, wood floors, Murphy bed) and I put her to bed. It was only then that we exchanged names and, shortly thereafter, numbers. I kissed her and told her goodnight. She so sweet and vulnerable and I questioned her sanity letting me into her house while she was on the verge of passing out. I made sure to lock the door on my way out.

Dear reader, I will not bore you with many details of what happened next but I would rather paint a picture of the next year of our lives. We became nearly inseparable for the summer. I flaked on my other prospects and they flaked on me and I found myself enthralled with this girl. I learned all her secrets, her desires. Some of them were innocent and some deeply disturbing. This was the silly, incongruous and endlessly appealing nature of my new-found lover. I was unemployed and completely broke and she was teaching middle school in some farm town forty-five minutes North of our beloved, incestuous little city. We went to the river when it was hot. We threw house parties with hippies and hipsters and old people who read poetry and drunken party-crashers who came in off the street. Her two black cats roamed around and brought us half-dead animals in the night (a mouse one night and a bird the next night. I bludgeoned both the critters with the same empty Heineken and threw their bodies outside). We slept on a sheep skin rug and made love under the air conditioning. I fucked her hard, awaking the little deviant who had been in a nine year sexless relationship with a man who turned out to be a homosexual. I trained her good and called her my “little slut” often. She wore dresses or pencil skirts daily, and a bright red one-piece bathing suit for the river. She hurried off to work in the mornings. I walked about her place eating food and feeling lonely. I faced the Egyptian Question Mark of a cat’s asshole with every turn in that apartment. We participated in setting up banal art shows. We danced often. We played records while it rained outside. We knew everyone and it seemed everyone adored her. I intimidated and irritated her suitors who annoyed me to no end. We traveled to the desert, to the snowy mountain town where she was born, to the ocean town where she went to college (we crashed a Mestizo History course). We camped on the beach. We fucked outdoors, in tents, in the back garden, in the kitchen, on the dining room table as party guests were leaving (always unshaven and unprotected). We ate mushrooms until the world felt distinctly round and alien and colors painted the insides of our eyelids. This went on for over a year. I eventually had find a job but we kept pace and I spent a lot of that year in her dilapidated apartment. I belonged there with her – it was almost perfect.

There was always a tension with us. She wanted nothing more than to have child and I wanted nothing less. “This won’t last, it can’t,” I would think. She told me she loved me one day and I didn’t say it back because I knew our relationship wasn’t sustainable. We fought that night for the first and only time and I left her. I was torn up and anxious and sick the next day so I banged some feminist whore for two hours straight. It only left me feeling worse. We got back together while I was going over to her place to collect my records. She cried, we fucked, and I admitted I loved her too. She moved down the street (rent-raising landlord) and were together again. Life became muted and strange after a while though. She kept telling me to either give her a baby or go, and faced with that ultimatum, I left. We fucked one last time and it was sorrowful but nice. I left her place in a daze, forgetting my bike in her basement.

Finally March Thirteen:

“I want my bike back,” I said to her through a text message. She agreed to ride it to the cafe (the astute reader knows the place) and return it to me. She suggested we have a drink and catch up a bit. Why not? I hadn’t seen her in six months. When she arrived, she asked if I have a girlfriend right away. “You’re wearing girls socks,” she observed. “I am.” “Are they your girlfriends?” “They were, I stole them.” “Is she pretty?” “Extremely,” I lied. She told me she is engaged to a man with the same name as me who is the same age and who (she says) resembles me. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I guess we know your type,” I told her over a hard cyder. She said she isn’t happy with him. He is always rehearsing for plays (actor) and he wants to move to L.A. even though she loathes the place. She is lonely, she tells me. She described him as gay-acting and less handsome than I am (female honesty at it’s finest!). She told him that I used to fuck her in the ass. “Why would you tell him that? No good can come from telling your fiance’ that,” I said. “He doesn’t care, he would never do that anyway. It’s not his style.” So, dear reader, her fiance is a tepid lover and he can’t please her like I did. I take pleasure in this somehow. We drank and chain smoked and talked and flirted. “Do you still love me?” she asked. “I don’t have to answer that,” I said with a smirk. She knows. We walked from the cafe to the old apartment. She wanted me to try to break in through the back door. I could have. We would have been alone in that old, empty place all alone. We would have fucked on the Murphy bed (regret washes over me as I type this) and I probably would have knocked her up right then and there. Let my faggy doppelgänger raise my seed! Nobody would question the paternity. But I didn’t. We smoked on the porch and she rested her head on my shoulder wistfully while I rubbed her neck. She needed to beat her fiance’ home so we climbed in my car and I took her home. She crawled on top of me in the car and we embraced and I kissed her neck. She started to leave but I pulled her back in and she sank into me again. “I have to go!” She said. “I know, just one more whiff,” I said as I sniffed her obnoxiously. “No,” she said sadly. “Too late, already got it. Goodnight!” I said and she laughed. She smiled with all of her face in that way only a woman in love does and waved goodbye and her fiance pulled up and parked in front of the house. I drove away carelessly, high on the pain of love.

Feburary Seventeen: Used to Dance

I used to swing dance at this old church in downtown Sacramento. They used to have drop-in lessons on Fridays. You could go and the instructors there would teach you the basic steps and a few moves to use that night. A jazz band would come on after the lesson and play for two hours while people danced. Some of them were really good. They taught different moves every week so you could improve by going often.

The demographic was mixed but slanted young. It was an all ages affair I think but there weren’t any kids there. There was typically twice as many girls as guys. There were teenage girls who went every week. They all wore dresses. They were all thin. They would smile brightly and mingle about and dance and mingle some more, their sweat causing their smooth complexions to shine a bit. Long legs spinning past long legs. They were nearly all white and seemed to come from conservative, well-off families. I danced with them. My hairy ape hand thrust towards them like I was offering them some invisible coffee cup – their delicate hands in mine. Kleine, was machst du mir?

I was there once with some Asian girl I met at a cafe (her name escapes me but her annoying mannerisms linger). I let Yellow Girl dance with whoever while I talked with a coy, long-haired eighteen-year-old who looked like the subject of some Renaissance painting. She drifted off to her friends after she sweetly shook my hand, smiling coyly. Then I found some broad I recognized from somewhere (still avoiding Yellow Girl) and she asked how my progress was. She was a tall, gawky chick with a poor complexion that was caked with makeup that didn’t match her skin tone. She informed me that my basic steps simply would not do (“no, no, no, no!”). This needs refining. As a neophyte, I obliged her. She had this way about her; she was very insistent and clearly liked to direct people. She would excitedly assert that things should be this or that way but she wasn’t abrasive. It’s kind of charming actually. She directed me to the kid who was teaching the class earlier. He was some tall (gay I think) dude who showed me the steps again (him teaching from girl’s side). He was really goddamn good. It turns out I was doing it all wrong. We talked a bit in the hallway and I thanked him and said goodbye.

A year or so later someone shot that poor kid and killed him. A stray bullet from some ghetto fight at the gas station hit him and he died. I was getting gas there the day after it had happened. There was a picture of him and some flowers on this vacant foundation of some never-built parking structure. I looked down at it and said “fuck” and a tear dropped out of my eye.

August Sometime, 2012: Thirty-Two on Twentieth Street

This fucking hipster bar is a mess. Some nights there’s cute girls smoking cigarettes outside and some nights there’s not. Tonight there is not. It’s a weekday anyway. It’s the only place where I’ve approached a girl and have been met with nothing but a condescending stare. The bartender asks me what I want. “Nothing. I was just looking for someone.”

I was walking to my car which was parked at another bar when two drunk girls and a dude stumbled past me. I started talking with them and pretty soon the girl with the guy was gone and it was just me and the remaining drunk girl. She was decent looking but certainly over thirty. She told me she was thirty-two multiple times that night. She really emphasised it like it really meant something. We walked and talked and got to her place in a matter of minutes and she invited me in. She lived in a spacious, two bedroom penthouse in a central location. It was nicely furnished with your typical Ikea shit and a houseplant and it looked clean but it smelled kind of like dog. She took me upstairs to show me her art. I didn’t even remember asking about it. I was tired and bored and kind of going with the motions because she was the only person around. She had one room designated as her bedroom and the other as her painting studio. She showed me her painting and they were all the same. They were stylized pictures of a woman’s face with bright colors for backgrounds. One was a bright pink and purple, the other a bright green and orange. She had like a dozen of these paintings and they were all basically the same. One would be blonde, another would be a brunette but they were the same angle and the same proportions and none seemed better than the others. They reminded me of Richie Tenenbaum’s portraits of Margot. Her closet had more paintings in it and even though they were stacked vertically, I was sure they were of the same face.

We went downstairs and she excitedly put on Bo Burnham’s Words, Words, Words, which I had already seen. She seemed to really love it. I think it’s something you can only watch once because it’s not that good. We layed on the couch with her dog and watched the T.V. I didn’t stay the night even though there was a tacit invitation. We didn’t have any rapport. We had only known eachother for ten minutes and she was already ready to lay down, heavily sedated from alcohol. She was thirty-two, thirty-two, thirty-two. Bo Burnham is funny, clever, funny (did I say that already?). I needed to go, wanted to go, had to go. I took her number and said goodnight. I’m sure she was asleep before I was even in my car.

July Twelve: Unlivable State

I lack any real ability to compartmentalize. When something is fucked up in the back of my head, it’s on constant display on my face. I decided to wander around midtown last night in some misguided attempt to meet women on a Thursday. I was mellowed out by a Klonopin and the bizarrely cool weather. The streets were dead. I had to walk blocks before seeing any non-homeless person. There were no attractive girls to be found at the regular spots. The only people I met were a black couple who asked me for 10 bucks (the female was tweaking hard) and a gay cholo who said I could make some money tonight if I was “open minded enough.”

These fucking delinquent tickets I have are killing me on the inside. It sounds absurd but I owe the government so much money for stupid bullshit that it stresses me out. The only thing worse than this feeling of unresolved “debt” would be actually paying these things. And Goddamn, everything in California is a fucking scam or a bureaucratic nightmare. Want to start a small business? Add a garage to your house? Go fuck yourself. I’m surprised I can still shit in my own toilet without filling out a confusing form. What frustrates me is going to work (which I hate on principle even though I work less than 20 hours a week) and knowing that all the money I make that day is going to have to be flushed down the mailbox.

This is going to sound like some hippie bullshit but the whole of modern living is about keeping our minds away from the present. My mind can’t be on the cute girl sitting on the other side of the cafe because if I let myself get caught up in conversation with her, I’ll get a fifty-six dollar parking ticket. My mind has to always get back to a clock and where I’m parked. Nobody just sits and drinks coffee. They all have iphones sitting next to them, ready to chime or quack and make a harp sound that pulls them out of the present and shifts their attention to some guy who wants to fuck them. Or worse, a push notice from Facebook that chimes to say someone liked their photo. And the photo is never anything impressive like a giant turd that protrudes out of the water. What’s worse is the people who apologize for the State. They say in a sing-song voice “wellllll, if anyyyone could just start selling things they would be unsafe andtherewouldbenoplacetoparkiftheydidntticketandtheticketsarethatpricebecausethere’sanextrafeethatisnddededtocoveradministrativecostsand…blah blah.” It’s dumbfounding; like guys who enjoy being pegged. I can’t even fathom.

My ex-lover is dating some other asshole. I was almost over her until we fucked the other night. I stayed in her bed all weekend having marathon unprotected sex with her. Another flashing glimpse at bliss. Then she left to San Francisco with her slutty friends who do coke and get fucked in bathrooms. I haven’t seen her in a week and I know she’s with some guy and that too stresses me out. Only because all of my new lady friends are lower quality than her I think. Whenever I’m with them I feel like I’m selling myself short. I’m going through the motions with these girls like an actor who is relegated to a shitty play he’s been in so many times that he no longer recognizes the plot but still can deliver the lines. At least I got a free coffee today.