June Twenty-Nine: Two Years Gone

Jesus Christ – I drink a lot. It snuck up on me. Drink some beers after work, run out, drink some Seagrams 7 and bitters, go into work hung over. Repeat. I have to quit smoking because it’s given me some weird sleep apnea shit and I feel sick all the time. I do pretty well at not smoking until I get drunk – so I have to stop both. It’s the most unoriginal problem ever and thus, the most unoriginal blog post. I hate my job and so I am literally killing myself when I get home. My neighbor does the same. He works in a warehouse where they sell building supplies. Doors mostly. He manages ex-cons for ten to twelve hours per day and then comes home and drinks gin and tonics and smokes American Spirits. I keep saying “we’ve gotta quit doing this” and he says “yep” and then we don’t.

Technology is a series of petty frustrations. Nothing fucking works right and if it did, it would still be stupid. I’m an AV integrator. That means I struggle with stupid bullshit all day; wireless mics drop out, switchers crash, transmitters stop transmitting – there really isn’t anything in AV that works consistently. I’m constantly hanging giant TVs (ninety inches minimum to see an Excel spreadsheet clearly) on walls and getting my hands cut up from running cables. And I hate TV. I don’t even have a TV. People ask why and I say “to keep the Jews out of my head” but honestly, I’m too lazy and unenthusiastic to watch anything. Or too drunk.

I’m about to have my second yearly review for this job and I’m about to turn twenty-eight. I cannot remember the last two years at all. It’s because I’m inexplicably tired all day, every day. I wake up early and I’m tired. I force myself to the job site and I’m still tired. I got to lunch and get more tired. I go home and drink and smoke and briefly don’t feel tired, then I go to sleep around ten because I’m tired. I  keep my bedtime consistent in order to get nine hours of sleep which doesn’t do anything to make me feel better. I’m still tired. I dream I’m drinking water at Nigel Farage’s house – right out of the sink. My subconscious is telling me I’m dehydrated. I need to get up so I can get on this conference call. “State your name” then that creepy beep. “Let me give you the elevator pitch. We’re gonna to revamp your huddle room…” I hate these words. They make me ill. I mute my mic and projectile vomit last night’s Heineken and ground beef into the toilet. The girl I’m banging cleaned the bathroom while I slept. It wasn’t dirty.


Dear Mr. Tacos

This is a response to your tweet on raw dog:

From one spellcaster to another, there’s a ring under a rock outside of the Friendly Arms Inn that gives you extra spells per day. It’s a godsend. Also, jury nullification is the shit. I once was on jury duty for this kid who got busted with some Meth and couldn’t wait to get on so I could fuck shit up. I mentally prepared myself to express my utter lack of any emotion or opinion involving drugs. I would take on a persona not unlike that of the hitchhiker from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; completely innocent and unbiased. I didn’t get picked.

When I was twenty-years-old I had unprotected sex for my first time with an old classmate of mine. It was this girl who had a beautiful, hairy cleft of Venus and very small tits. She was kind of chubby but my standards at the time were that she be (1) alive and (2) plausibly female. I successfully paleobated to the memory of this mediocre girl on my parents’ toilet five years later – which actually happens to be a few weeks ago. Later that week she texted me saying how good the sex was and that my penis was the nicest she had ever encountered. This was probably a poor compliment to pay me since her boyfriend read her texts and now has to live with the knowledge that she ranks his penis below mine. They are married and live in Oregon now. Anyway, after banging this chubster, the head of my dick became consumed by a massive, round sore that had an opening. It was like when you eat too many pieces of pineapple and you get one of those sores in your mouth. It hurt too. I put neosporin on it and got these little round band-aids that covered the sore perfectly. My friend, his Mexican girlfriend and I went to Teriyaki-To-Go and as soon as we sat down I blurted out “I think I have an STD” and I started to sob like I was in Japanese court trying a little pathos in hopes of getting a lighter sentence. Since I had a suspended license they had to drive me to planned parenthood where I sat waiting among the underclass while a baby screamed a dissonant note into my left ear. I recognized this black chick in the waiting room from high school but she didn’t say “hi” for some reason. When I finally saw the physician (or whoever) she looked at my flaccid member and said “hmmmm, this doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before” which I didn’t find that comforting. I asked her “is it The Herp?” She said it didn’t look like it because it didn’t have the cluster pattern. I guess I knew that though. She asked me if I had ever had sex with a man. No. Had I ever been incarcerated? No. Had I ever shared needles? No. Then I got an HIV, syphilis, and gonorrhea/chlamydia test which all came back negative. The sore took a fucking month to heal. Every day I examine my dick in anticipation of its return. I’ve used a magnifying glass and a reading lamp to survey my penile topography on multiple occasions. I don’t recommend this because you’ll see sores and lesions where there are none – like horrible patterns in the clouds.

One year later I was an avid condom user but I still managed to contract a wart on the base of my cock (just out of the covered zone). I didn’t know what the wart was so I decided to cut it off in the shower and it bled. Then it spread. Pretty soon I had two warts so I became concerned. By the time I saw a doctor I had sixty of them. He gave me this gel that burns them off. You use it for two days then stop for two days and repeat until they’re all gone. I was somewhere in the middle of my treatment when I got drunk at a house party and went piss. I looked down at my dick, now literally covered in warts and burning badly from the medication and whispered to myself “I’m a monster.”

All of this has left me with a crippling anxiety after sex with new women; even though I still do it with a frequency that leaves me in a constant state of mild unhappiness. The anxiety is badly exacerbated by consuming alcohol which is, of course, always involved. I am thirteen years younger than you. Fucker.

P.S. Huge fan.

April Thirty: Diseased

I have a friend who is constantly holed up in his bedroom with his Les Paul and at least an ounce or marijuana. He always tells me he’s not in the right head space to play an open mic, or to hang out, or go meet women, or whatever I’m trying to talk him into doing. It’s a shame too because he’s the Goods and I love spending time with him. The worst part of him being a recluse is that he fucking wastes a lot of that quality alone time doing nothing productive besides marathon porn sessions on Adderall (solidarity, buddy!), which only produce semen stains. “I’m not like Kurt or Elliot, man.” He says. “I can’t create when I’m feeling down.”

And neither can I. I’m feeling really fucking down because I have scabies. I haven’t done shit for the past week but itch and worry about who I’ve infected. I have a bona fide fear of parasites and now they are all over my body. There’s one who ate, laid eggs, and shit a trail across the underside of my dick. It’s like the trail of tears only with dead dick skin instead of dead Indians. It hurts to beat off but I did anyway because I stumbled upon a good teen collection and couldn’t help myself. The whole thing hurt and didn’t feel good at really any point. Even busting sucked. All it did was make the area around my urethra angry – with that kind of anger that begets a grudge. Nights have been the worst. That’s when the fuckers get warm and decide to start moving around or something. My arm pits, legs, ass crack, all itching in unison like some insanity-inducing orchestra. The physical equivalent of Captain Beefheart leading the London Symphony in your bedroom while you’re trying to sleep. One .38 Wadcutter could fix this. Deprive these fuckers of everything. No, I wouldn’t go that far but the idea seems sane enough in this midst of sleep deprivation and constant itching. I went to my Mexican doctor and he gave me some pesticide with instructions to cover every inch of my body with it. I took a scalding hot bath, dried off and did just as he said. Then, after two days and seemingly no improvement, I decided to see what people on the internet were saying about scabies. This was a huge mistake. This fucking website topix.com has forums loaded with poor bastards who have had scabies for 8 months and have tried every cure known to man and have given it to their whole families who now resent them and shit. The fact that permethrin-resistant mites even exist has thoroughly fucked with my head.

I went to the house of my former girlfriend and told her I have body lice. I thought that sounded nicer than scabies and I wanted to avoid the sexually transmitted connotation. She, of course, accused me of getting it from a women. I think it came from sleeping on the floors of dirty hotels with my own blanket, then throwing it in the back of a truck and taking it home and using it in my bed. At no point did I ever think to wash it. In retrospect, it was sickeningly ignorant behavior. I made her wash all of her bedding and clothes and stripped her down naked so I could cover her body with the permethrin 5% lotion, which gave me a good stiffy. I did her asshole last because she is ticklish down there and told me to skip it altogether. That wasn’t going to happen. If your whole body is a toxic dump for parasites except your asshole, they will hide out in it like a fallout shelter. I did the thing that doctors do to kids when they give them injections; “on three, okay? One…tw”BAM! Hand full of cream in your asshole. She yelped and it made me laugh. I checked her for spots but I didn’t really see any. She said she itches so I know she’s got it. I’m hoping to kill the little cunts before they cause her any real pain. I still love her.

There’s a lot more I could write but I’m going to have a panic attack if I do. Plus, there’s a new barista at the cafe with a VERY petite body, cute face, and a mouth full of braces. God shits in my mouth then smiles at me briefly.

April Eight: Fiancés

My coworker is marrying a busty Italian girl who is charming and silly. She asked me to fireman’s carry her and I declined because I was tired and I thought my coworker would think it was weird. She’s very flirty but there’s no risk of me fucking her or anything. I’m not a scumbag. She wasn’t satisfied since I didn’t pick her up so she jumped on my back and insisted on a piggy-back ride. I couldn’t resist so I ran around saying “Oinky, oinky, oinky!” while she said “Go piggy, go!” and I ran into objects and pretended I was going to throw her off my back. She laughed with girly delight. My coworker looked irritated so I made her get off and went back to work. I got their wedding invitation in the mail when I came home.

My friend’s sister shot me a text message asking if we were still on for tonight. I had forgot we made plans. She has a fiancé too. She told me she secretly hopes he has an affair. She is bored with him. All he does is go to work, then come home and eat raw meat or something. I guess he doesn’t fuck her good either. He could probably kick my ass though.

I went home and took a nap. I didn’t have any sort of plan where to take this girl or what to do with her so I grabbed my guitar (she had hers in her car) and we went to Capitol park and played together. This consisted of us trying to find a song we both knew in between her complimenting me on how smart, good looking, and talented I am and some drunk Indian people making me play a song for them – which I did. After all, who am I to let down a drunk foreigner? Once we had come up with two songs we could sort of play together, we went to the open mic across the street and signed up. The bartender there likes me. She makes me these very strong gin and tonics and charges me $2.75 for them – when she charges me at all. She’s a total sweetheart but I don’t find her to be particularly interesting. She also likes dumb music but she says she’s a fan of the music I play, so that’s good. Stroke my ego and you can probably stroke my cock. I got my friend’s sister a whiskey lemonade and she paid for it with her fiancé’s credit card. I was okay with this. We played on stage early and sang into the same microphone, which is weirdly intimate. When we sat back down our drinks were full again. I tried to flirt with my friend’s sister and the bartender simultaneously but ended up neglecting the bartender. I have a bit of history with my friend’s sister. Nobody knows it and we’ve never discussed it, but I kissed her in my garage one night a couple of years ago. I also finger banged her in a hotel in Reno next to her best friend who was sucking my dick. Then I made out with her other best friend which she castigated me for. If only she knew that friend also stimulated my cock, she would have been pissed. Nobody knows any of this. We pretend it didn’t happen but the sexual tension between is out of control. I was now drunk and staring into her lovely eyes and admiring her perfect mulatto skin and peeking up her skirt which she wore just for me. It was time to go home. We drove back to my house and I took a piss on the lawn. I went back in her car and made her give me a massage. She can fucking rub my back like no one else. She said “Fiancé doesn’t allow me to give massages to other men.” I said nothing. She gets just deep enough. She genuinely likes delta blues. Her favorite novel is Lolita. I want to fuck her raw and cum in her hairy little pussy. So I rubbed the back or her neck and pulled her in and we made out somewhat uninhibited. She kisses perfectly; no training required. I slid my hand up her skirt. We kissed some more but she had to go home because her fiancé told her to be back at midnight and no later. It was 11:50 and she lives a half hour away. We kissed some more then she sped off and I went inside and masturbated and fell asleep.

March Thirty: Raining in The Valley

I went out with a new girl I met downtown and her little sister. We went on a date to Folsom, which is a well-to-do community of professionals and their despicable offspring.  These kids grew up in the suburbs, went to college, then moved to the suburbs. They love trucks with lifts, country music, boats, steroids and fucking ugly chicks. The police are especially vicious out there. They are fucking everywhere too. There’s no real crime since it’s basically only inhabited by white people, so the cops just sit around and give out speeding tickets and DUIs. Every house is spread out so far that nearly everyone drives drunk too. The dick of the law fucks everyone there and nobody seems to notice or care. If the police disappeared overnight that place would be just as safe as it is now, only when fights broke out (which they do everywhere) nobody would have to inconvenience their mom or dad with a call from jail. Worse still is the people out there are basically as unfriendly as possible. It’s like they work at it. Your average Roseville/Folsom kid has the entitlement complex of a hipster with half the useless knowledge and one-hundred times the desire to fight you. The chicks are cunty and as ugly as I’ve encountered. The male to female ratios in most bars nearly 3:1. If this is what hard work leads to then I’m glad I’m a loafer. Police, drunk assholes and busted broads. Time to go home.

My date and I had some drinks at a bar with a loud band doing covers of songs that should have never been popular in the first place. They were like a live jukebox that some piece of shit spent 20 dollars to play the Journey discography on. You know those internet jukeboxes that are in every bar that sucks? They have the full version on In-a-gadda-da-vita on them. It’s like fifteen minutes long and you can hit the ‘play next’ button to inject it in the middle of someone else’s set. I do it three times for good measure. My date, her sister and I were walking down the sidewalk to another bar when I bumped shoulders with an obese woman in a dress. I said “sorry” and kept walking like a normal person. Her boyfriend (or whoever) wasn’t happy with this and went into full Fat Boy Rage. He was yelling to the point where his voice was cracking. I actually was so absorbed in my conversation with the girls that I was a good twenty yards away before I realized he was yelling at me. I turned around and he was shouting “GET BACK HERE” “GET BACK HERRREEE” in the most awkward way possible. I was too far away to really walk back though so I just looked at him for a second and all of his friends started leaving without him. It was fucking embarrassing. I kept thinking “can I even do a choke on this guy? He’s fucking fat. Is this going to ruin the night for the girls if I beat his ass?” Then we walked away and made fun of him for a bit. We went to another bar which had some intolerable shit pouring into it through the speakers and went outside where a fight broke out and it started raining. I decided I had done enough flirting and enough drinking with the girl and the sister for the night and told her to come get a room with me at the hotel across the street. She said no. She took me back to my car and then she took her sister home but said she wanted to hang out some more before she left. It was already 2:30 so I knew sex was inevitable (if I could still get an erection). I figured my date didn’t want to look like a slut in front of her sister so I called and asked about the hotel again after she took her home. She said no. She lives with her parents and they were mad last time when I fucked her and slept over so we had no good options besides the hotel that was right fucking next to us. We were also both pretty buzzed and in a city full of bored, aggressive cops. I drove to her house and picked her up. Then I drove a block past her parents house in the pitch black cul-de-sac and parked my car. We went into the back seat and started making out with her. When I pulled off her panties, that beautiful pussy smell filled my car almost instantly. Hers is intense but pleasant like Gardenia or something. I fucked her hard and listened to the pitter-patter of the rain on my car and her gentle moans and wondered if the rain would wash the tobacco spit from my driver’s side door. We were butt-ass naked in my car when I blew my load. I drove home once I could see through my windshield. My defroster never worked so hard in its life.