September 30, 2011 § 1 Comment
I gave you the first blow job of your life, back behind the church after youth group. You had braces and I had stolen money to send you flowers on Valentines Day for our junior high’s stupid tulip delivery to raise funds for the 8th grade trip to Six Flags fund raiser. I’d sent you seven tulips that day, Anonymously, with notes that said shit like, “Knock Knock, Who’s There, Just a Flower” and “You don’t know me, but you should.”
And I’d blown you and I’d loved you and you had braces and you played the trumpet. But every day you and Jill were kissing in the hallway and I couldn’t see the chubby, short, hoser you’d become one day because when I ran past you in gym class you’d always wink at me.
You didn’t hang out at Skateland, trying to finger girls. You didn’t smoke ditch weed or break into houses at lunch time to see if there was any booze around. But you did ask me to blow you behind the church, and you knew I would do it, and then you cried, and then you never even looked at me again.
So now you work for the very same church, and you’re married with a kid, and you like to go to ballgames, and your wife is the sort who doesn’t put photos of herself on Facebook. She puts up photos of pink ribbons about boob cancer, or photos of crosses instead. She has only one album and it’s called “Cakes” because she makes cakes, I suppose, to make money while you’re working for the lord at our old church.
And I did find a picture of you two together, at Six Flags, of all places, both fat and happier than I’ll ever be at size 2. But I wonder if you’ve ever taken her out behind the church, held her hand, made her feel half as good as I did to have your attention to myself, and then asked her if she’d give you a blowjob. And I wonder, if the two of you ever did get up to that sort of blasphemous debauchery, if you closed your eyes and saw me, age 12, looking up at you like you were going to be your own kind of God one day.
September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’m going to SF this weekend. I’m glad I don’t have any friends who call it Frisco, because that would pretty much seal the deal on me never going back there.
First time I was there, it changed my whole fucking life. I was a meek, frightened mess when the plane landed, then by the end of the week I’d called my husband and told him I was leaving him.
Last time I was there it was with you. You took me on the most romantic date I’d ever been on, and we cat-sat for your friend, and you were still calling me a sweetheart. You’d lay there and look at me and say how I was so cute. And all I could think of was how you were such a nice guy and so good to me, and we went to a really nice book store and I met your sister and her family.
Tomorrow I’m going with someone else, and I think he’s a nice guy and he tells me I’m cute, and we’ll probably go to a bookstore.
But it was after that trip that you started getting mean, eyes rat-like as you’d put your hand up and tell me to shut my mouth. It was after that trip that you’d wait until we left a party and were driving home, then start telling me I was a piece of shit and I smelled terrible and we’d have those big crazy fights.
So, I guess I’m a little bit nervous about going on this trip. For once I’d like to go up there, smoke weed with some SF hippies, and then just come home without anything at all changing. Do you hear that San Francisco? Just leave things alone this time.
September 28, 2011 § Leave a comment
We called her tuna at first, because of the way she stank. It wasn’t an inspired nickname, but it was too true to be very funny. Then we started calling her Shamu, because of the way she stank and that she was fat. She was my roommate at the group home, where we had this point system for everything we did, and the only way you could get moved up to a higher level is if you got a certain amount of points for a certain amount of weeks, and if you got all the way up to level 3, you got to do things like go out on weekends and skip out on bullshit activities like Bagel Fest.
Paula was always a level 3, because she was too much of a loser to fuck up, she couldn’t miss curfew because she never went out, and because she was a total narc. She didn’t even skip out on the stupid activities, because if she didn’t go to those activities she would have nowhere else to be. I could have done something fun with Level3 privileges, but the only things holding me back from getting there were booze, boys, and Paula.
I once came close to killing her in her sleep. She was gaping that chapped mouth of hers wide open, snoring so loud that it rattled the windows, and some voice in my head was like, “Just kill her. Just get over there and kill her. You take medication for being a mental case, so you could probably get away with it.” And I got up and I got a safety pin and I opened the pin and I was going to drop it down her throat. But, who was I kidding with all of that business? I’m not the murdering sort, so instead I just spit in her mouth. She woke up and started yelling, and I got in trouble for it, which meant no Level3 that week. « Read the rest of this entry »
September 27, 2011 § Leave a comment
People would be surprised how much dick a girl working third shift at a gas station can pull in by listening to mix tapes. This was after my first kid was born, too, and I had that weird flap-gut, stretch marks all over, and a dollar store fashion sense. Still, night after night some midwestern stoner or factory worker would come in and get my number. Sometimes I’d fuck them around the back of the building, but mostly I would just tell them when my shift was over, get their address, and drive over to their place to let them eat me out in their water beds or futons before heading home to my step-dad’s place in time for him to get to work.
You happened in to the gas station one night on your way home from a death metal show in Madison, and there I was, restocking the chips and listening to Abwhore, seeming like some ginger, tight jeaned goddess of Frito Lays. Your long hair was still sweaty, parted down the middle, and I thought about all the rock and roll guys I’d ever slept with, and how they were all total pussies.
You rocker guys, you’re just the worst at everything, you know? You’re humorless cry-babies who’ve been tricked into assuming a lifestyle based on years of other humorless crybabies marketing metal as music for tough guys. I wish I could go back in time and find that moment that each of you took a look at your puny or flabby bodies and decided that the only thing to do was to metal away your pain. If I could do that, I’d whisper in your ears, “Step away from this. You have options. Punk Rock is way more fun. Or just be a nerd. Then at least people will think you’re smart.” « Read the rest of this entry »
September 27, 2011 § 4 Comments
But it’s not getting raped that bothered me so much. It hurt more getting raped by a teenager with a pencil dick when I was four than it did being raped by this dude in my shitty cinderblock efficiency apartment when I was 22. Rape kind of stopped being a big deal by the third time it’d happened to me, despite having to act under the pretense that I wanted to take back the night, or some shit.
I go way the fuck out of my way all the goddamn time to come off as one thing or another. Like, if I’m going to the gym, I’ll totally wear some sort of outfit that screams to everyone at the Jamba Juice that I’m going to or have been at the gym. I don’t even like Jamba Jizz, it just seems like the sort of thing a person who goes to the gym will drink. Or, like, I’ll totally be super nice to homeless people, but I make sure to do it in the biggest, most public way I can. If nobody was looking, I make sure to come home and post about it on Facebook. “Wow. I thought I was having a bad day until I saw that homeless guy with shitty pants, so then I gave him my pants and basically saved his homeless life.”
I go way the fuck out of my way to make sure everyone knows that I’m not a racist. I fist bump and say stuff is fresh. I have deep conversations about the under-use of blacktors in commercials. I write moving articles about the injustice system and how they use prisons to keep minorities down. I walk around in bad neighborhoods and nod at people. « Read the rest of this entry »
September 27, 2011 § Leave a comment
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.
September 27, 2011 § 2 Comments
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.
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