Satan’s Favorite

February 28, 2011 § Leave a comment

His baby is no longer in danger of being a retard, which, of course, he’s plenty happy about and all that, but this kind of blows my whole vision of becoming the best “auntie” to the retard child ever. I had a clear fucking vision of the kind of saintly person I’d be, carting the tard around town, or just taking him to the park. I was hoping he’d have some special gear that would really make his disability pop when people saw us together, but I’d settle on a helmet and a leash. I love kids. Anyway, I guess I’ll still take this kid to the park, but some of the magic is lost.

I’m dating a Satanist. It’s really hard to take him seriously, likely because he takes himself seriously enough for two. Sometimes when we fuck, it’s fun to play around like he’s the devil, but there’s no fucking way I’m going to his church and letting his weird satan buddies drink my period blood. Boundaries, dude.
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February 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

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… « Read the rest of this entry »

I’ll Never Be Cool Enough

February 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

Another one of my teeth broke. That’s three this month. Soon I’ll be reaching Sheen status, but without the drugs. I’m hell on my teeth; always have been. I eat lemons, for fuck’s sake. I use discount teeth bleach. I throw up bile. I throw up whiskey. Some nights I’m too drunk and tired to give a fuck about dental care. Yeah. I’m hell on my teeth.

I remember when I was 16, in the treatment center, when we were playing some crazy bullshit game to pass the hours until our insurance companies kicked us out and our parents were supposed to resume worrying over our pot smoking. In the game, we had to wander around with our eyes closed. Don’t fucking ask me why. We did all sorts of stupid shit in that place. Anyway, short of it is, I ran into some furniture and I broke my front tooth right in half.

“Put it in milk.”, the emergency dentist had told us, so we put my half tooth in a styrophome cup of milk and I got to leave the grounds to have some half-assed tooth glue job done. During the time it took to arrange the whole thing, the boy I was crushing on that day asked if he could see my tooth in my head, broken off like it was. I never opened my mouth for him, and I hate that about myself. A cooler chick would have gaped her maw open and shown the jagged edges like a champ. But, me, I just clamped by hand tight over my mouth and shook my fool head.


February 26, 2011 § Leave a comment

“I think a big reason people have so much trouble communicating about STIs-”


“STIs- Sexually Transmitted Infections. It’s a CDC thing.”


“Yeah, maybe too many acronyms for you so early in the morning.” Fucking retard.

We’re laying in my bed and my twat feels like it’s full of hot sauce and peanut butter. It’s not. And there’s no discharge to indicate that my body is producing it’s own special sauces. Since he and I tend to have some pretty fucked up sex, the pain isn’t really the issue. The last three times we fucked I swear it felt like every time was my first time. Totally hot.

But I’ve gone through 31 years of my life without ever getting a disease and I’d hate to think the gig was up now. I didn’t want to have to go lay down on a table and make small talk whilst my burkenstock wearing, dog owning gyno poked around in my oozing pussy, waiting for the “Looks like we’ve got us a problem down here.”

“I think the reason it’s hard for couples to talk about is that it’s somewhat accusatory. But people should be able to look past that and just think of it as a conversation that needs to be had.”, I said, waiting a beat before asking him if he’d been tested recently.

He hadn’t. I had.  So, basically it would be all his fault if my pussy was infected. Hah. All of a sudden I was A-Okay with the talk being accusatory.

I popped out of bed and made coffee, ignoring him until he left, feeling smug. Itchy, burny, and smug.


February 25, 2011 § Leave a comment

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. « Read the rest of this entry »

Stage Fright

February 24, 2011 § Leave a comment

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.  « Read the rest of this entry »

Obessed With Fire

February 24, 2011 § Leave a comment

He sends me a message on Facebook that’s all about how I used to be an office aide and I smiled at him in art class and we went to the fucking bowling alley. All I can think is that I bet he’s fat and smells like a weinie wagon nowadays. If I’m wrong about the smell, I’ll bet I’ve never been right about anything in my life.

He hasn’t included a picture, but the message is the long sort and a glance at his profile shows that he never uses pictures. He lives in Terre Haute, too. I remember going there to race go-carts, riding in a big van with the other troubled youth, feeling the hot hands of the newest boy slipping under the rim of my shorts.

None of us girls ever got along unless it was long enough to call “Slut” on another one of the sluts we knew. Thinking back, I bet we could have unionized that underage pussy and been playground powerhouses. Instead we glared each other down and stole each other’s boyfriends.
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