I Made Pancakes

May 6, 2012 § 2 Comments

“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 »


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.

Guess What? I’m Polyamorous Now!

January 19, 2012 § 1 Comment

There are already great deals on some of the things we'll be needing.

So, because I see you, DT, more than anyone; because I love you, I prefer your company, etc; because of all of that, you’re my “primary”. The fact that I fuck other people makes me poly. I know this, because some poly asshole I fucked once out of boredom just emailed me to tell me so. Even though I said that I wasn’t poly, he claims that I am. He must be right.

Now that I’m poly, what should I do? You said that I need to speak and write sanctimoniously about being poly.

And I’ll need to gain more weight

Maybe become Wiccan

smoke cloves

I’ll need to flirt stupidly and disgustingly in public places with overweight guys with long hair and ring beards, but stop them from tying me up with the hemp rope they keep in their backpacks by telling them that my primary needs to approve first « Read the rest of this entry »


January 15, 2012 § Leave a comment

My poor dear friend she calls me, she comes over here, and her face is all smashed up like the way you see in movies, and like the way  you see in movies, I get my macho up and I want to kill him. Whoever did this, whoever, wherever oh, he’s getting killed.

And my poor dear friend, she says, “no,

you don’t get it.

you don’t know.

it isn’t what you think.”

And that part, well, at first I think, that part is just so typical. Poor dear friends everywhere always say that part, but then that part, well, then I think that part is too much like a bad movie, so I start to listen. And she’s telling me about

crazy, stalking, fueled by whatever it is love does to fuck us up, « Read the rest of this entry »

I Don’t Know What The Fuck Is My Problem, Yo

January 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

Shit. It’s not as if I haven’t been in therapy since I was seven, getting hypnotized, visualizing, bio-feedbacking, cognitively behaviorally therapized, medicated, dialetically retrained, and even electrocuted in my head. It’s not as if I haven’t been talking about shit in “I feel _____ when you ____ because _____.” statements, taking responsibility, taking personal inventory, and taking it one day at a time since I was a tiny fucking kid. So, you’d think that by the time I’m 32 I would have my shit so fucking straight that I’d sit around in a fucking mental lotus position and have a little bit of wisdom and constant personal growth.

Instead last night I stayed awake all night, every bit of me shaking with anxiety, every bit of me obsessively overthinking some guy, and if he likes me back.

Anyway, I also watched some Hulu, and there was this one ad and by the fifteen time I saw it I was screaming at the fucking computer, and my kid eventually was like, “Listen, I have to get up for school. Please stop yelling at the people in the ad.” But, come the fuck on, I said to him, can’t you fucking see how preposterous this is? This lady, she walks into her house and she’s like “Oh, we just had the carpet cleaned.” and the whole floor is just caked in dark brown foot prints with some lazy fat fuckers laying up on her couch eating on some pizza? It’s the level of the dirt mess that got me. Jeezus Crumbs!, I told my kid, look at the fucking mess. If I were that lady walking into my house I would be “What the motherfuck? Did you guys dip your feet into a vat of dog shit? Did you all have diarrhea in the living room then have a ho-down? Shut the fuck up about your cheesy bread sticks, and motherfucking explain to me how the hell you produced this level of disgusting in our living room?”

Anyway. Today is kind of hell since I didn’t sleep, but I am caffineating myself upright, and whenever that guy and if he likes me comes into my mind, I am just going to put him on that couch with those guys from the ad and pretend he got my floors dirty, because 20 plus years of therapy, and I still haven’t figured out how not to get stupid over a penis.

Where Am I?

You are currently browsing the Boobed Bukowski category at More Pecudum.

%d bloggers like this: