I Made Pancakes

May 6, 2012 § 1 Comment


“Well, the first pancake is always the one you throw away.”, Max is telling me as V stuffs baked chicken into his gaping face hole.

The Russians are here to take pictures again, but it wasn’t like the last time, V pointing his hundred dollar crap camera at my ass, telling me to arch my back more, more, the men will want to see me arch my back, me painfully aware that my pussy looks like lunch meat from that angle, thinking no amount of arch is going to make that any more desirable.

This time the Russians are taking pictures of the bites, the bruises, the marks left by my first client, their comrade. They called him earlier in the day and he promised I was lying to them, so they needed the photos to take back to his apartment, to take back along with a baseball bat, to take back so they could get more money out of him. « Read the rest of this entry »

You Said Not To Write About You

April 29, 2012 § Leave a comment


And I said something glib about how there was nothing to write about, so not to worry. Because, at the time, I just wanted you out of my house. Your head was still full of hair dye that you refused to wash out, and with the combination of that and the nail polish you seemed to be using as deodorant, I couldn’t stop vomiting.

All the boys in the world want to think they are special. But there I go thinking it’s just about boys. I know I’ve been wishing people would write songs about me since the first time I sucked a musician’s cock. All the people in the world want to think they are special. Worth mentioning. Worth saying something about.

It’s why I love going to psychics, head tingling as they hold onto my hand, telling me more about me and what’s going to happen. We likely both know, this psychic and I, that all that’s really going to happen is the same stuff that’s already been happening. Her cat is going to keep sitting on the same spot on the dusty velvet sofa, she’s going to keep sitting in the same stoop waiting for people to pass by so she can take ten dollars, and I’m going to keep sitting on dicks. Yet, for right then I get to pay her to just talk about me. And she does it. And because of what she says, I feel like I’m worth talking about.

You were worth talking about, which you probably knew. From your desire to be a lesbian to your kabahlic system of power, to the way you kept walking city streets without your shoes, you knew I would want to write something about you.

But, chill the fuck out. I told you I wouldn’t. I just wanted you to know, since you’re reading this, that you are worth something, you crazy motherfucker. You’re worth talking and writing and thinking about.

I had a dream people cared about my dream

April 3, 2012 § Leave a comment


So, I know talking about your dreams is some sort of fucking huge ass downer for everyone, because they have to sit there and pretend to be fascinated that I had lobster claws for hands.

But the thing is, last night I dreamt I was fucking God. And it was a super normal thing to do. I met God at some shopping mall, he snapped his fingers, and we were in a huge bed, fucking. And God was really great at fucking, just so you know. He was a God.

And in one part of the dream, God tied me up with some really fancy rope, and I was face down and he was taking pictures of my asshole and showing them to me, and guess what? My asshole looked really sexy. It was pink and tight and small.

Then God tried to fuck my asshole and I was like, “Nope.”

So, I guess I don’t even give up the butt for our father who art in heaven.

Liver Spots On The Inside

March 29, 2012 § 1 Comment


Liver spots have always had a way of upsetting my stomach, since I was a little girl and I told this old guy that he had really big freckles on his hands, and oh, how everyone laughed and told me “Those are liver spots!” His hands, known to wander, smelled like old piss when he held them over my mouth, and I thought about the liver spots, how they might get inside me along with his fingers, and how that might turn me into an old, dying fucker like he was, only it would be my insides that were old and dying, and I’d never be able to tell anyone because then I’d have to become a part of their game.

People talk about the not telling that happens when little kids are molested by all those friends and family, and they tell their kids, “Kids, if anyone ever touches you down there, even if they tell you that you’ll get in trouble, even if they promise to buy you nice things, even if they tell you that you have to keep a secret, kids, that’s a secret you can’t keep.” But what they never once thought of is that if I didn’t tell it had nothing to do with any of that. The promises I made with these men were on my own terms, in order to just get it over with, not have to talk it over with them. And the same applies for the real reason I didn’t tell. « Read the rest of this entry »

I’m Disgusting

March 22, 2012 § 1 Comment


When I was 12, I stole a pair of period stained panties from my foster sister. They were clearly her panties, not some generic pair that could have belonged to either one of us. She was 15 at the time, and she would sneak in my bedroom window late at night, tell me about kissing some boy in a hot tub, and then the next day she’d go back to being a bitch about my being there. She was their “real kid”, and she fucking hated my guts. Most likely because I was a fucking goon with bad hair and no style. Anyway, I didn’t feel bad about stealing her panties.

But then, I dunno, I couldn’t just leave it alone and wear them or hide them away in a drawer. Instead, I called my foster mother into the bathroom. I stood there, clearly wearing her daughter’s period stained panties, and told her I’d started my period. I told her I needed some tampons. I told her I needed some advil. I told her this and watched her face closely. She was really old and she just stood there, head like a raisin, opening and closing her mouth, until she eventually turned and just left, never mentioning the whole ordeal again.

I pick my nose and eat it. I always have. It seemed natural as a kid, and the more people teased me, the more I wanted to hide and pick and roll the boogers and eat them. It’s like when I was four and my babysitter and my sister would laugh at me for “touching myself” under my blanket, and that didn’t make me feel shame, it just made me feel like doing it more.

I eat food that I find laying around. I once ate a hamburger I found on a porch. I once ate a steak out of the trash. I eat food that I left sitting out all night, or food that’s been sitting in the sun at a picnic for too many hours for it to be alright. A friend of mine once said you never hear about affluent families food poisoning themselves by eating sun-ripened noodle salads with mayo dressings. I suppose at my core I’m a poor person, because there’s never been a noodle salad I’ve even questioned.

I eat pills off the floor and drink drinks I find in the bathroom at parties. I’ve even eaten gum that I found stuck to things. Eaten it. Chewed it up and swallowed it. Recently I’ve started to look up the pills before I take them. There exists no similar technology for bathroom drinks. People are always warning me about finding drinks, saying what if that has a date rape drug in it. I figure, the way I drink, I’m going to forget the night either way. Besides, why would someone leave around a perfectly seasoned cup of date rape? Seems they’d be keeping better tabs on a thing like that.

I once held a job as a short order cook at a two-bit truck stop in small town Wisconsin and this fat fuck, Randy, he’d always come in with his overalls and order roast beef sandwiches, and he always found things to complain about. The kitchen was ten kinds of too hot, and I was already crabby from having the owner of the place rubbing his dick on my ass, so whenever I was making a sandwich for Randy, I’d wipe the bread in my armpits. I don’t know if you ever noticed (like how if you put your finger in your belly button, whoa, it smells sour), but armpit sweat smells a lot like pussy. Maybe the roast beef covers up a flavor like that.

I use whatever toothbrush I find. I saw a myth busters once about poop in the air, and they found out that there is poop all over everything, including your toothbrush, so I figure there’s nothing in my mouth as disgusting as poop, so people shouldn’t get bent out of shape over a thing like me using their toothbrush. I do understand, however, people getting bent out of shape when I use their face razors to shave my pussy. I still do it, though.

I’m a disgusting person, and I guess I’ve been that way for my whole fucking life, and I don’t know how I really feel about it. What I do know is, I see homeless people all the fucking time, shitting wherever, eating out of the trash cans, pissing themselves, collecting things in carts, wearing clothes they find in ditches. And I never think to myself about how they can live that way, and I never think to myself about how sad all of that stuff is. The only thing that really bothers me is that they sleep outside. I’m too delicate for that shit.

Hey, Date Rapists! There’s A Groupon for You

February 21, 2012 § Leave a comment


Have you ever been out on a date, buying round after round, and been absolutely certain that your date was in that sweet drunken spot of not being able to remember if she said yes or no? Have you gotten her all the way back to your shitty apartment, onto your mattress on the floor, only to realize that she’s nowhere near drunk enough not to stop you from giving her the raw dog and cream pie?

Don’t let her pre-drink carb fest ruin your fun. Now, you can afford-ably carry this Personal Breathylizer so you can know for certain when she’s reach the important intersection of wasted and black out.

Celebrity Sighting: One of the Jonas Brothers

February 3, 2012 § Leave a comment


The good looking one, not one of the fucking doofuses.  Presumably the one who sings while the other two poodle-haired oafs play tambourine and bass.

I was at the bowling alley.  Place in (REDACTED- don’t stalk the Jonas Brothers where they bowl).  On my way in I noticed a young girl in tight pink shorts perusing the rack of balls. Man, I think to myself—god damn, she is hot.  Except it’s night bowling, the lanes are lit only by weird mood lights and Snoop Dogg Featuring Pharrell Williams videos and 3D animations of bowling pins dressed as rodeo cowboys dodging a ball with horns on it.  So she’s hot, but she might be a well-developed thirteen year old and in that case I oughtn’t give her the full rapestare in a crowded family friendly atmosphere.  She kind of looked about college age but you never know—usually, when you see a girl that’s just SO hot, when you get closer, she turns out to be underage.  What does this tell you. « Read the rest of this entry »

Where Am I?

You are currently browsing the Better Than Everything category at More Pecudum.

%d bloggers like this: