May 26, 2011 § Leave a comment

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.

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To my future son:

May 19, 2011 § 1 Comment

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.

This Might Be What You Meant By OverSharing

May 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

I was shitting today and managed to push out my tampon into a bowl full of shit water. That always makes me feel like I must have a pretty loose vagina.
Since my boyfriend thought I wanted to have something the size of a sheep up my twat, and I’m too much of a sadist to buy my own tampons, he bought me those fucking Utra Super Absorbency bitches. What that meant was that there was no way to flush that thing without clogging the toilet and having shit water overflow everywhere. What that meant was I had to fish the tampon out of the shitty water, which I had to do with the barbeque tongs because the ladle wasn’t grabbing it.

What that means is, who wants to go to Ikea with me to get a new pair of tongs and soup ladle?

Diary 5/9/11: an actress

May 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

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.

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And *You* Should Also Smoke Crack: It’s Easy and Fun

May 12, 2011 § Leave a comment

You don’t have to cook up a big “Menace II Society” sized batch, or whatever—you can make crack with just a few bumps worth of coke, and have it serve as a handy fallback when you’re running low after a coke binge. What you do is take a sheet of tinfoil and mold it into kind of a pan/spoon shape, with a rim around the bowl. Don’t use an actual spoon because the metal is too thick and in the time it takes to get hot the heat will travel down the handle and burn your fingers.

Take an equal amount of (or slightly more) baking soda to your coke and lightly mix the two dry ingredients in your foil. Then add just a few drops of water, just enough to barely cover the mix. Stir it into a paste, with a plastic pen cap or something.
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I Smoked Crack Once

May 11, 2011 § Leave a comment

Man, fuck that night, and fuck it in that “barely interested but whatever, it’s there and who else are you going to fuck” way. You’d convinced me to go with you to Milwaukee to try to track down some blow, and I was somehow thinking I should settle into some sort of hophead lifestyle anyway. I mean, I had just given my entire paycheck, meant to pay my past due rent, to some shady fuck with shiny teeth and a big plan to double my money. He knew a guy, and his guy would be able to give me the kind of shit I could turn around quick in the small town I lived in where the only fucking thing to do was drugs. Except the shiny teethed shitbag had disappeared with that money, and now you had this crazy fucking thought that we could find him, and if we couldn’t, we’d use all the money the others gave us in advance for drugs we didn’t have to buy drugs from someone else, cut those drugs, and still come out ahead.

This isn’t a fucking story I saw on bad network television, either. This is my life, you jerks, and this shit really happens. And don’t go thinking I think I was just caught up with the bad kids. I was fucking up my life, and, despite the fact that my job at the time was shift manager at Burger King, I was smart enough to know that none of this shit was a good idea. Even the Burger King job was a load of shit. Everything about my life was a bad idea.

But I went with you, anyway, because my money was already gone and what the fuck else made sense? But the night didn’t really turn out the way we planned it and I ended up sitting with you in some trailer park smoking all the crack we’d just bought with this blacktar toothed couple while their little kid bounced on the bed and called his dad a fucker. “I want my applejacks you fucker!”, that little kid kept yelling out, bouncing up and down, awake and ready for a bowl of the ‘jacks at 3 a.m.

Yeah, I was dead set during that time on helping my life fall apart, not quite satisfied with it only being mediocrity level shitty. When I was little I’d always thought I was going to end up being pretty great at something. I could tell by the number of times my white trash family drawled “You think you’re better than us? You ain’t no better than us!” that I clearly was, in fact, better than them. That’s not saying much as they weren’t exactly champions of anything. But I did figure that coming from bullshit people like that and knowing I wasn’t a bullshit person from the time I could form a thought meant that I would do something amazing. When I found myself grown up and losing at the greatness thing, I guess I just figured that if I was going to be a fuckup, I was going to be the most amazing fuck up I could be.

Last weekend I was hanging out with this guy who was smoking speed. I called it meth, but got told that that’s what you call it if you don’t know anything about it. So, this guy, his whole life is falling apart, and he keeps talking about how fucked all of it is. And he’s crouching down, looking shifty toward the drawn shades, telling me how I should never ever get mixed up in this shit, how I have an innocence about me that I just shouldn’t lose. And this guy, the whole time he’s telling me what I should do with my life, and the whole time he’s complaining about all the shit that’s falling apart in his own life, he keeps heating up that pipe, vapors filling the glass like magic dream smoke from a cartoon where a goddam genie is about to appear, and he’s taking hits off that pipe, and he’s saying “I have to figure it out. My life is falling apart, and I have to figure out why.”

After that night with you shit got a lot worse for me. But then I got bored of the worse. It wasn’t killing me, and even if I kept all that shit up, I doubt seriously that it ever really would have. I’d just be missing teeth and looking old at this point, and I’d likely still think I was somehow better or different than the other crackheads I knew. I was a little white trash kid who thought I was better, and back when I was fucking teenagers and chewing E, I thought I was better than them. But I looked at this guy, and I realized that I’m not really better than anything. We all know what’s fucking us up, and I have a different list than he does, so who knows if he’s going to live past next year or steal my shit, or end up killing someone. Life’s just so fucking random, isn’t it?

Why I Love Douches

May 11, 2011 § Leave a comment

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.
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