Eevee McHale pt. 2

This is continued character building for Eevee McHale. I think the narrator is going to be the character in the story I’m working on about a failed liberal painter who jumps on the alt right train because it’s profitable, and how he gradually becomes ashamed about selling his soul for fame and money. Eevee might be a character he created, and this might be part of the novel he’s writing. He’ll probably have a redemption arc.

Ehh fuck that.

Redemption arcs are boring.



Eevee’s childhood was perfect, and she hated it. Her parents were rich, even by SF standards. They were happily married, an anomaly in our society of skyrocketing divorce rates and marital dissatisfaction, not even giving her the common whining point her fellow well-off peers told everyone to appear oppressed. She was an only child and spoiled the fuck out of. The only nonprivate school she went to was UC Berkeley, where she graduated with an Associates in Liberal Arts.

On her sixteenth birthday, her parents bought her a new Lexus. On her eighteenth birthday, her parents rented SF City Hall for a sixties themed party. And on her twenty-first birthday, her parents paid for her to “backpack” across Europe via first class trains and trendy hotels, ironically called hostels despite costing more than the average SF hotel.

It was in Paris, of course, where she got her first taste of radical politics via the salty cum of an “anarchist”. When he wasn’t sodomizing her in the loft his parents paid for, he regurgitated all the things her professors taught her in college: the evils of the rich and bourgeoisie and anybody who profited from anything; the damage colonialization inflicts to-this-day on former colonies who now have infrastructure and two story buildings; how forcing Muslim women to wear burqas and hijabs isn’t anti-feminist; how killing animals for food is bad and abortion is good; and a slew of other things that aren’t retarded.

Unbeknownst to Eevee’s parents, her backpacking stopped in Paris. She opted to skip Rome, because it was a symbol of imperialism, and spent her remaining three thousand Euros on anarchist leaflets and made in China balaclavas for her boyfriend’s Antifa chapter.  

She decided that she didn’t want to return home to the Great Satan her Iranian anarchist friends told her about. Paris would be her new home, and from there, she, her boyfriend and his three dozen followers would start the next socialist revolution.

They took advantage of every legitimate protest by destroying stores—even mom and pop shops because they’re the petty bourgeoisie and backbone of the corrupt capitalist system—flipping cars, and beating the fuck out of evil centrists.

She finally felt like she belonged; like she was a part of something bigger than her. She felt alive and important and a bunch of other platitudes. But then her boyfriend got arrested for tossing a Molotov cocktail into a Starbucks that didn’t allow homeless people, who didn’t smell like fermented belly button juice, to take up the seats paying customers didn’t deserve.

France’s terrorism laws guaranteed that her boyfriend wouldn’t get out in years. His parents stopped paying for the loft. She was thrown out on the streets with no money, and soon learned that none of her boyfriends anarchist friends actually liked her. They tolerated her because she was their leader’s girlfriend, but behind her back, they referred to her as The American Bitch—an allusion to Marie Antoinette’s epithet: The Austrian Bitch.

Eevee lasted two nights in the Parisian streets before calling her parents to apologize for being a dumb cunt, and ask them to buy her a first class plain ticket home.


 

Oh, and feel free to critique and/or continue the story in your voice. Tara did a lovely job last time.

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Sex…Then Suicide

Do you want to know how fucked in the head I am?

I just had the most amazing sex of my life.

How amazing?

The type of sex that would make the devil and god mutually masturbate to…That amazing.

My new lover is a freak–even by SF standards. She has four and a half hard no’s, while I have a solid five, so I’m the prude of the relationship.

Her lip’s bleeding, and she’s walking with a limp; my frenulum is sprained, and my back looks like a Vietnamese Catwoman gave me a massage.

I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow to buy spackle and paint because the back of her head put a dent in two of the walls in her apartment—serves her right for saying I couldn’t be too rough.

Shit, she’s knocking on the door the door to see if I’m alright—I can only pretend like I’m taking a shit for so long.

Alright…so me being fucked in the head.

Her apartment is on the eleventh floor of a tenement surrounded by homeless people using shopping carts for barbeques, and gutterpunks shooting up. I think she said it’s two grand a month for her one bedroom “box”. Fucking crazy. SF, man—it’s nuts out here. “At least you have a living moat of homeless drug addicts to keep the hipsters at bay,” I told her. She laughed.

Fuck, she’s knocking again. “One moment, the chile rellenos fucked my stomach up,” I said. She laughed.

Fuck, where was I..Um…um..rambling…rambling…….OH, so she’s a freak. She likes pain and pleasure and hate and love and cuddling and scratching and biting and fear; she likes a lot of things most girls would consider nightmarish. She knows that I like to write; that I have an overactive imagination; that I’m a doll-hair away from being as freaky as she is, so she always asks me to create new dark scenes for us to reenact. I said that I’d break into a cemetery with her, find a grave of a person with an interesting name–maybe Malachi–and fuck her on top of it while she screamed their name.

How ugly.

She thinks it’s pretty, though.

“For real, B?” she just said.

Fuck, I need to backpedal to finish: me being fucked in the head.

After covering every square-micron of her room in our sex sweat, she pointed towards her open window, grabbed my dick like it was the handle of a little red wagon and pulled me across the room. “Fuck, it’s cold outside,” she said as her nipples rested on the windowsill of her eleventh story apartment.

“Fuck me, B,” she said then…and just said now through the door of her bathroom.

She said faster, so I did; she said harder, so I did—her moans blanketed the streets of SF in a coat of ethereal pleasure.

“Come inside me, B!” she screamed.

As I was about to cum, I looked out of the window, down at the sea of unfortunate souls living in this sad paradise, and Imagined jumping out of the window. I imagined my lover reaching out to me as my nude body falls to heaven. I imagine cumming at the exact moment I splat against the cold concrete of the city I used to love.

That’s how fucked in the head I am.

 

 

Johnny’s Recurring Nightmares (Pt. 1)

I was friends with Johnny for three or so years before I found out how fucked in the head he was. And I know, fucked in the head sounds a bit harsh, but that’s his verbiage, not mine.


“I haven’t slept in two days,” Johnny said before inhaling a line of absurdly good coke. The type of shit that flooded highbrow clubs in the late seventies. The type of shit that shouldn’t be called shit, because the slang term shit came about when dealers started to cut their coke with laxatives…but not this coke. This coke was so pure Johnny called his Guatemalan drug dealer Freud, after Sigmund Freud, who advocated for medicinal cocaine use, until he got addicted to it…or so Johnny told me–I never touched the stuff.

“Dude,” I said with a giggle. “You can’t say shit like that after taking a line. Obviously you’re not gonna sleep.”

“Na bro, this is the first substance I’ve touched in weeks. No weed, no drink, not even coffee. I’ve been dangerously sober, but I can’t take it anymore.” Johnny fired out from pallid lips. “This is it. I’ve finally lost my shit.”

Johnny oscillated between all out addict and chaste straight edge, depending on the month, season and/or girlfriend. For a frantic fellow, he was unusually regimental when it came to drug use. Summer was filled with ecstasy and cocaine, drugs perfect for pool parties and beach bonfires. Autumn was his psychedelic season; he loved to take mushrooms, go on hikes and watch leaves fall from tired trees. In the winter, benzos, barbiturates and painkillers were mandatory to keep his SAD in check. And spring — which started a few weeks ago, on the day of his birthday, March 20th–was usually spent relatively sober; what he called his Spring Equinox Detox.

“What’s going on, man? Trouble with your lady?” I asked.

“Ah, fuck her. She went to the treasure island rave with her girls. It’s not about her, though. Well…it is…kind of. But not really. It’s more me. It’s always me. She’s just making it worse. I’m thinking about ending it. All she wants to do is party, and I can’t handle that shit right now,” Johnny said while chopping up more lines, not realizing the irony in complaining about partying while chopping up a bona fide party drug.

He met his current girlfriend, Luna, at EDC last May. What should’ve been a weekend fling, turned into a volatile, near-year whirlwind of love and lust and all types of fuckery.

“What is it then?”

“My fucking dreams…nightmares man. Every time I sleep. The same three over and over again. Nightmares from my childhood. Sometimes multiple in the same night. I can’t fucking sleep. And all fucking Luna does is complain that I keep waking her up.” he said, then inhaled a line so long he ran out of breath before reaching the end of it.

“Jesus Christ, man, you’re going to have a heart attack.”

“I have to. I feel like I’m in nightmare on fucking elm street. Gotta stay awake. Gotta stay awake.”

Johnny had never asked me for any type of support in the entire span of our friendship. He was my psychiatrist. I went to him when I had trouble with my girl or work or life in general. He was a manic madman, but he’d always seem to have this strange control over his life and emotions. He was a tempest in a snow globe that soothed friends and family with free verse lyrics of encouragement and hope while perpetually on the verge of a quiet nervous breakdown.

“Alright, calm down. Everything will be alright.”

“Everything will be alright?” he asked, perplexed at my trivial statement . “Everything will be all-fucking-right? Really!? Thank you for the pleasant platitudes, but I don’t need that shit right now!” he said in a decibel level I’d never witnessed. “Sorry man. Fuck. I’m sorry. I just–I just don’t know what to do. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

I didn’t know what to say. All I had was platitudes. That’s what most people wanted to hear. It will be alright. We’ll get through this together. After the storm, the sun will shine. I realized there was absolutely nothing I could say to console my best friend. He’d prefer me to talk shit to him. Joke around. But even that might make things worse.

“I just need someone to talk to. Someone to keep me awake. Someone to just be there. Someone that doesn’t make everything about themselves, like Luna,” he said before I could eek out another platitude. “I don’t want to be psychoanalyzed. Don’t tell me what you think they mean. I already know. I don’t need you to be Sigmund fucking Freud. Just listen.”

“I’ll listen, bro, but only if you lay off the yay. I’m serious. I’ll smoke a J with you and listen, but I can’t pay attention if you’re bumping every ten minutes.” I softly commanded.

“Deal.”

I started breaking up some of Johnny’s top-shelf Buddha to roll up while he told me the first dream.

“This might be my oldest dream…or nightmare…or memory…or whatever the fuck it is. I’m in my childhood home picking up microscopic rocks off the floor of my room and putting them into a trashcan with a giant hole in the bottom of it. After picking up all the rocks in one spot, I pickup the trash can and move to another, oblivious to the rocks tumbling out of the hole onto the area I just spent an eternity cleaning. As I kneel down to recommence my Sisyphean task, my mother creeps in behind me with a terrifying smile. As I open my mouth to tell her I love her, or hate her, or something stupid, her mouth opens and rocks blast out like a high power pressure washer, quickly filling my room, crushing and suffocating me, until I wake up paralyzed, gasping for air as tears flow down my rolled back eyes.”

I stopped breaking up the weed, and awkwardly held a small nug for a few seconds, not knowing if Johnny wanted me to respond back.

As I opened my mouth to say something platitudinal, Johnny cut me off and began the second dream

“I started having this dream when I was around eight or nine—a few years after the other dream. I’m skipping down the sidewalk of some crowded city, likely SF, or hell, dodging lines of people coming at me like an old arcade game, while avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk. I can’t see myself smiling, but I know I am. I catch glimpses of the end of the sidewalk after dodging each line; something kind is at the end, but I don’t know what it is–I just know I have to get to it…”

Johnny stopped and looked at me struggling to roll the joint and laughed. “Ya wey, your first time rolling? Give me that shit, fool.” Johnny said, then took the notebook, his diary, I was using to break up and roll on.

“Fuck, where was I. Um, um…Oh yea…so there’s something warm and fuzzy at the end of the sidewalk; maybe it’s heaven, maybe it’s limbo, maybe it’s Oz, maybe it’s oblivion, maybe it doesn’t matter what it is. After dodging the last line, I see the end clearly. It’s beautiful…whatever it is, it’s glowing in way only possible if a million perfect rainbows converged on a perfect prismatic fractal….Hold up one sec.”

Johnny stopped speaking to apply the last coat of saliva to the joint he rolled in a dozen seconds, then resumed his dream.

“I begin to skip faster, making dangerously large strides while still trying to avoid the cracks. I feel the end pulling me. I know I’ll be safe there. I must get there. I must live there. I must die there…”

Johnny sparked up the J, took five or six micro-puffs then passed it to me.

…Right as I’m about to reach my heavenly unknown, a vantablack shadow appears, forcing me to recklessly skip off-course…the darkness lets loose a portentous cackle as my foot slams into the last crack in the sidewalk…the world shatters around me…the clouds fall like ethereal tear drops…I’m left standing on a single piece of freezing concrete, suspended in darkness.”

“Fuck,” I eek out with a puff a smoke.

“Yea,” Johnny said with a sigh. “That dream is the roughest. Every time I have it, I wake up sweating, patting at my body like I was just pickpocketed. Every time I feel like a part of my soul was stolen.”

End of Part 1



 

I’ll likely never finish this, but I wanted to post something.

 

 

 

Johnny’s Big Bang Theory

“Our universe,

                        all universes,

will implode once every thought has been exhausted.

                                               A single being,

                        maybe an alien,

                                                  will manifest our universe’s final thought,

causing the synapse

                                  which received the final signal

to collapse in on in on itself,

                   creating a mini blackhole that devours our universe in an instant

—then bang,

                         a new universe is created from the being’s consciousness

                                                   who destroyed the previous.”

I Don’t Miss You

I don’t miss you.

I miss my vision of you.

The you from my dreams.

The you who’d stuff large pieces of sushi into your mouth, mid-sentence–despite knowing my pet peeve for people who talk with food in their mouths–while preparing a piece for me with the perfect amount of wasabi and soy sauce, and stuffing it into my mouth, as you finish your train of thought, tempting me to contradict my own pet peeve with a lovely, impish grin.

The you who’d hold me on lovely nights, under lovely skies, and ask me to find the little dipper–despite knowing exactly where it is–just to have me look down, innocently willing to answer your question, and be met with puckered lips, ready for a happily ever after kiss.

The you who’d run your hands through my hair as my head rested on your naked body, while listening to me read out loud–despite knowing I hate reading out loud–an article purporting that the structure of a single human brain cell matches that of the universe so closely that our universe might just be the brain cell of another higher being.

I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss the real you.

I don’t miss the now you.

The you who’d tell be through texts that Somebody else calls me dollface now.

The you who aped my personality–the good, bad and obnoxiously individualist–and incorporated into your own personality like a sartorial accessory.

The you who crushed up my remaining innocence and railed it so you could party for days on end with people I introduced you to, telling them, from a high white pony, about all the fucked up shit I never did, but you say regardless, because it helps you sleep every third night.

I don’t miss you.

I miss my books you kept as your own and show to others to appear interesting and informed.

I miss the records I spent hours and days and weeks scavenging from garage sales, flea markets and Amoeba SF, that you show off despite not having a turntable to play them.

I miss the clothes I bought, which made me stand out, that you decided to cleverly cut into dresses to wear for other men, on other lovely nights, under other lovely skies.

I don’t miss you.

I miss me.

I miss the me you stole and never gave back.

I miss the me that wrote silly, happily ever after poems.

I miss the me that liked to drunkenly tell anyone who wanted to listen about the Greek origin of soul mates…how man was originally created with four arms, four legs, two heads, and one heart, and how they challenged the gods, and nearly won, and because of that, the gods decided that man was too powerful and needed to be split in half so they’d spend their entire lives searching for their other half.

I don’t miss you.



 

I don’t usually write on weekdays, but I needed to get this out.

 

Capsules of Concentrated Sacrifices

I sacrificed my dreams to not have nightmares.

I sacrificed my body to not hate the way I look.

I sacrificed my favorite feature, my changeling eyes, to pills that permanently dilate them, making them appear brown and drab, to not have them half-covered by sleepless eyelids.

I sacrificed my limitless highs to not have crushing lows.

Maybe I should build a pyre of prescription pill bottles and sacrifice my sanity, again, to elevate my psyche back to my pantheon of personality extremes.

Maybe I could find happiness in being Zeus for a few weeks or months, Hades for a few years, Apollo and Athena for a few moments, here and there, all rolled into my primary personality, Dionysus, who drinks wine, takes ecstasy and eats lotus flowers, and live a perpetual life of ritual madness.

Maybe I should just sacrifice myself, and ask to be buried somewhere pretty, with a rose bush growing on top of my grave, not bouquets laying on it to wilt and decay and be blown away.

Maybe sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe I’m stupid for thinking sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe life is a series of protracted sacrifices.

Maybe sacrifices are natural and necessary to advance our lives.

Maybe I don’t like that sacrifices are natural.

Maybe I should burden myself with the sins and sacrifices of others–then sacrifice myself like the scapegoat in the bible.

Yea, maybe I’ll sacrifice myself, my soul, my entire being.

One last sacrifice.

Maybe.

It’s a Beautiful Night

Once upon a love, under diamond studded skies draped in nimbus negligee, two lovers drank cheap Moscato in a park overlooking the city, chain-smoking Kools and flicking the still-lit butts towards downtown hoping a strong west-wind would pick one up and drop it on the silk dress of some floozy who just got done saying like for the 47th time, setting her dress aflame as douchebags, who’ve blown hot air at her and her ilk all night, fan the flames, setting off a chain reaction that travels down each alley, each smoking section, into each bar and club, setting the city’s night life ablaze for days, until all the ego and vanity burns away.

“It’s a beautiful night to watch the world burn,” his lover says before taking the last sip of Moscato and smashing the bottle on the ground.

“I love you,” he replies.

Titleless? i think not

I mentioned in my previous post that I’ve been happy recently, and that I should never question as smile, but I can’t help but ask myself why. I know it’s stupid to do, but I do a lot of stupid things. I know that if I ask ‘why’ enough I’ll eventually discover that I have no reason to smile. A smile today is a frown tomorrow. I try to tell myself that it’s best to only smile once in a while—to keep it precious—but I know it’s not true. Smiles are worthless. Happiness is fleeting.

I quit drinking again.

I took a break from drinking.

I’m not drinking for the time being because I think it’s causing brain damage.

I think one day I’m going to become a homeless person that meanders down the street regurgitating scrambled quotes from Being and Time, and Civilization and its Discontents, and the Unabomber manifesto, screaming in crowded plazas about over socialization and the need to disconnect. Maybe I’ll build my own tent city, fit with a cardboard palace for me and the stray dog I’ll likely find and befriend and feed better than myself.  Maybe she’ll only have one eye, “forcing” me to call her Lisa ‘Left Eye’ Lopez. Maybe I’ll recruit other filthy vagrants to form a stinky cell of neo luddites and storm the doors of Google and Apple and Facebook and every other skynettian corporation infecting my home and world.

Maybe.

But probably not.

I don’t have enough hope or faith in the world to do all that jazz.

We’re all fucked, and we deserve it.

 

 

Home

Hello lovely people of WordPress. My apologies for not posting anything interesting, not saying this is, but I’ve been moving for the past few weeks. I’m not completely done, but I managed to finish my room, with the exception of some art I need to do on a few blank spots on my wall.

I’m back home to the south side of San Jose, and it’s beautiful—it’s home. I live right across the street from the drive ins I used to roll into with a trunk full of booze and women. A place where I drank, smoke, fucked, passed out while watching movies from 7pm to 2am for $6.50, jumping from screen to screen, sometimes watching four movies in one night. A place where I passed out with a girl on a Saturday night, woke up Sunday morning to the flea market, that’s held there every weekend, being set up around my car, with a dead battery that I was able to take out and replace with a new one I bought from a nice Mexican man with an automotive stand, and replace it within an hour. A place where I saw a double feature of the first Austin Powers and Shaq’s Kazaam. A place with shitty nachos but is right across the street from a Stromboli place that I could order from, hop the fence, pick  up, hop back and feast with a smile on my face as the other patrons got food poisoning from drive in food. A place where I got drunk and high enough to damn near attempt to hop on a semi slow moving freight train as it passed by right behind the drive ins. A place where I busted my first heaven tag on the back of one of the screens. A place that I hold close to my heart. One of my favorite places in the world.

I’m exhausted, so I’ll leave this post with that, and the pics of my room below. I’m happy to  be home, and it shows in my recent mood…mood, singular. Life is good, never question a smile. Cheers.

myroom

myroom2

Micro-Aggressions are Stupid

I slept through most of my diversity training. I think it was called that; maybe it was sensitivity training. Fuck, it’s all the same. All that matters is that I had to waste an hour of my work day that I could’ve spent trying to locate and fix bugs in our design tools that result in thousands of dollars being lost everyday, but hey, we do need to be trained on how to not give a fuck about the race, creed, sex, religion, Warcraft character, and sexual organ preference.

I DON”T FUCKING CARE.

But I had to sit in my company’s theatre with 50 coworkers, who probably agreed with her, and listen to shit I already knew and offended me for assuming I didn’t know.

 

The last thing I heard was she a lesbian, that doesn’t like to be called “she”, and that people mistake her for a man because she has a crew top and wears dockers.

“Something, something, who cares, who cares,” I repeated to myself. “Who thought this bitch was a dude,” I thought before disconnecting from reality.

Now, I understand the importance of words, and how somebody saying that Asian people can’t drive is offensive—though it’s often true, with the Chinese at least, because they don’t/didn’t have many cars in their country, BUT I’ve seen Tokyo Drift so I know a very very very small percentage of them know how to drive way better than wet dogs—and how calling someone who’s obviously transgender by the wrong pronoun is offensive—though I live in the SF bay area and have seen my fare share of dudes wearing tutus and leopard boas rollerblading down the street claiming to be women just so they could get buttfucked in a Castro St. alley—and how telling my Mexican friend that Caesar Chavez called illegal Mexican immigrants wetbacks and thought that illegal immigration hurt Mexican Americans more than the bosses who capitalized on cheap labor—though Caesar Chavez was in fact incredibly reticent to support illegal immigration, despite thier living situation, because his people, Mexican Americans, suffered as a result of corrupt politicians and land owners and bosses taking advantage of the cheap labor they happily welcomed, and now rail against because it no longer serves them….I know all of this. Life sucks. People suck.

I’m pretty sure the crew cut, suited ve, zei, shay, or whatever the fuck pronoun they wanted to be called spoke about all of the previous shit I stated. Yea, stereotypes suck. My friends and I make fun of each other using stereotypes. I’ve always been the only white boy in the group—‘white boy’ being synonymous with bitch—but I think the problem is that there’s not enough epithets for white people…maybe that’s just me. I’m half joking with all of this. Maybe I’m not. I probably am. I just like talking shit, but I bet my soul that I’m more inclusive and accepting than 99.9% of the people, like miss/mr dockers crew cut….I just show it in a different way; a non hypocritical way. Maybe I’m wrong. I laugh away bigotry with my diverse group of friends. My Mexican friend(straight from Mexico) called me a beaner as I pulled weeds from my former house. “Ya wey, you going to come do my house next? I got tamales.” Him saying that doesn’t make it right, but it allows us to laugh away stereotypes. Fuck, I’m rambling. People fucking suck. Maybe that is wrong to say. I don’t really care. I feel like offing myself—I have more important things to think about tha people joking about their own ethnic group.

 

SO, I came to as the person speaking mentioned that telling a black person that they speak eloquently is a microagression.

I lost my shit.

How fucking offensive.

My nephew and niece are black. Don’t you fucking dare say that shit about them. Stop spewing shit like that. You’re doing more harm than good. Stop it.

I wanted to raise my hand and challenge the smug senora, but I knew that stupid fucking people would somehow call me a Nazi for challenging the incredibly offensive apparaisal of my black bretheren’s verbal-linguistic intelligence, so I bit the fuck down on my tongue.

The meeting ended, and I waited until all of my coworkers left, before walking up to the dudette.

I chickened out.

And now I’m drunk and bored. I’ll post this because I spent the time writing it out.

I recently moved back home to the South Side of San Jose. Fucking home. I love it. I’ll write a post about it soon…maybe even share a pic of my rad ass room.

Love you all. And no, I’m not racist—I just try to find a way to laugh at all the shit that makes me sad, and some stereotypes are hilarious. Fuck off if you’re offended.

 

 

Oh yea, I remember what I planned on telling the suit lady: “Every breath you take is a microagression to me.”

And fin.

I Guess

I should write something.

The door going into my house from my garage was just painted so I can’t chainsmoke inside it. Instead of not smoking, I moved all of my shit out to my side yard, and my huskies followed me to chill; that’s why I attached the featured image—pardon for the mess, I’m moving.

I’m getting drunk and watching Instant regret videos while listening to Tool’s Lateralus—the three go together unsurprisingly well.’

My thumb is too dirty for my iPhone to unlock via it’s fingerprint identification.

A baby pincher  bug is crawling across my screen as I type this.

My dog’s feet are green from frolicking in my recently cut front yard of weeds that I’m leaving my likely pedophile landlord before moving into a place my friends bought.

I just watched an advertisement about Ellen DeGeneres on a video excerpt of the Tom Green Show and wondering if that “as funny as a mass shooting” so called comedy special is only being advertised because she’s a lesbian.

I’m also wondering if I should create a character named Ellen DeGreedy.

I’ve been taking Phenibut recently, and I think I want to become an addict.

And Finally, I’m sorry for not posting anything new lately, or responding to comments, I’m a failure.

Constructive Criticism or Just Criticism

Well, I’ve been up since 2am.

Goddamn insomnia.

I stayed in bed, watching flat earth debates, until 7am, then decided that I’d hit the bag and lift weights until I got tired enough to sleep until noon.

Didn’t work, it just gave me energy—what the fuck.

Feeling mentally exhausted and physically amped fucking sucks. It’s such a head fuck.

Instead of going back to bed to watch more flat earth videos, I brewed a gallon of coffee and got to reading; an activity that usually helps my mind wind down enough to go to sleep when I’m tired….but nope, still wide awake.

So then I decided to cook breakfast for the house. I kept it simple today: a jalapeno, mushroom, calabaza and spinach scramble with bacon and English muffins.

I usually don’t eat breakfast because food makes me incredibly tired, but today, that’s what I wanted, and guess what? Didn’t fucking work.

Fuck.

So I started writing.

First, a satirical listicle called: 5 Tips for a Guiltfree Suicide

I probably will never publish it, but it was fun to write, and it helped release a lot of anger I have for banal listicles about mental health.

Then, about hour ago, I started back on my second draft of the first story I published on here: Luna C. Soledad

I deleted everything I worked on last week because I’m a self loathing bastard. I’m about to do the same thing. The insomnia is amplifying my already roaring self loathing, and my sleeping pills are no longer working. It’s rough.

Anyways, here’s what I’m on the verge of deleting—tell me if you like it, hate it, loathe it, despise it, abhor it or any other synonym for vehement disgust.

 

I met Luna in the back of a grungy goth club on Haight Street.

My night started at a company party held at SF City Hall, which I only attended for the open bar. The people who organized the party really fucked up by not choosing the type of booze that would be sold, resulting in myself, and my fellow underpaid coworkers, skipping the dinner, opting for hors d’oeuvres in between taking shots of the type of aged scotch you’re supposed to sip on throughout the night, committing booze blasphemy, and destroying the chances for even a ‘beer only’ open bar at future company parties.

It was around eleven when the bartendress told us that the bar was closing up. She was a short Asian girl with a collage of tattoos running from wrist to shoulder and a lip piercing she played with in a way that made every man she served think they had a chance with her. I properly tipped her 1/5 of what I would have spent. Bartending’s a rough job, right below Public Defenders and Sewage Treatment Workers, so tipping them well is mandatory, especially at an open bar. She saw the Franklin and poured me one last full glass of scotch while biting her lip slightly different than I’d seen her  do the rest of the night. She wasn’t just playing with it; she was inviting me to play with it.

I went for it, “Did you get that piercing to satisfy your oral fixation.”

She softly ran the tip of her tongue up the inside of her lip, pushing out the piercing slightly, answering my question without words, then asked,  “How did you know?” with feigned innocence. I knew what type of girl she was. A hot flash of all the lovely debauchery her and I could do all night long filled my mind: whips and chains and vibrators and ball gags and scratches and bruises. 

I snapped out of my nightdream after cumming on her face and said, “I used to have one when I was a kid. My oral fixation had me playing with it to the point my lip would swell up.”

She glanced at my lips, and we both imagined her biting them.

Before I could ask about the other piercings I imagined she had hidden beneath pretty lingerie, a man from across the bar yelled, “Are you just going to stand around and flirt. You have glasses to wash and the counter to wipe down,”

She grabbed a napkin, and wrote her name and phone number on it.

“Give me a call sometime.”

Before walking away, she plucked a cherry off the counter and handed it to me.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“For your oral fixation.”

She sashayed away, looked back and tongue fondled her piercing one last time for me.

I sat in front of the bar for a few minutes to allow my erection to settle down, then walked out of the building to an oddly warm San Francisco night.

 

I think the bartender is going to be another Luna in the part two I’ll likely never finish :).