Is the name of my favorite sushi restaurant in my city.
And it kind of sounds like Sunday, so I’m going with it.
Hello beautiful people. I am not totally smashed off brandy and sangria.
I had a great day. I woke up early—despite drinking too much last night—drank a few gallons of coffee less than normally and got some reading in. I’m already behind this year on my reading—I think I’m about two years behind in total—but I’m going to make up for it. I have a dozen new books that I haven’t gotten to yet. I chose to start IQ84 by Murakami. I have a few books from him, but I decided to start this one first because it’s dystopian, my favorite genre. He’s an amazing writer. I’m ashamed I haven’t read one of his novels yet. BUT, I did read one of his short stories. A super short story. And one of my all time favorites called: On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful Morning. It’s sappy and cute, and kind of sad at the same time. I’ve read it a few dozen times, and it still makes me smile.
After reading for a few hours, I took my two huskies, Luna and Aeris, on a walk. The former is white, the latter is black, and when they lay together on their doggie bean bag, they look like the Yin and Yang symbol…at least to me. I’ve been spoiling them too much lately: left over steak and chicken, one fiji apple every night, along with all the standard dog treats and rawhides.
My pretty walk with my pups inspired me to come home and write. I added more to a couple of my drafts, did some character building, but then got bored and uninspired.
What happened next was shocking: I went back and started to revise my previously published stories. Shock and awed? Me too. And it was fucking fun. I’m working on one of my favorite stories, Luna C. Soledad, and I’m hoping to republish it within the next week, along with the part two I’ve been struggling with. I’ve quadrupled the amount of words for just the first iteration of Luna, and I’m not finished. I always considered that story just an outline that needed a fuck load more detail to properly display my girls.
I’m surprisingly optimistic regarding my writing recently. I feel like I’ve almost broken through my need to write the way I’m supposed to…and find my own voice.
My writing got cut short because a friend popped into my garage out of nowhere. I love him, but I really wanted to write for four or five more hours.
“I miss you, B,” he said, breaking my heart. My friends put up with my antisocial shit, and I love them even more for it.
“That’s just how you are,” they say, pulverizing the pieces of my heart.
Shortly after he came over, my other friend came over with his baby, then another friend and their baby, then my housemates came home with their baby. It was beautiful. Three innocent souls, who can’t even talk, pulling on my beard and giggling at me making funny faces. I’m a piece of shit, chain-smoking alcoholic and recreational drug users, but I fucking love kids, and they love me, because they know I’m just a six foot two child.
I wish I was able to have children. I know I wouldn’t be a good dad, and I wouldn’t dare risk them inheriting my mental issues, but the primary reason behind my antinatalism is my appraisal of our fucked up world. I can’t bare bring kids into a world this fucked up, but maybe one day I’ll afford enough to build a pretty ranch in Colorado, or somewhere else away from the toxicity I engulf on the daily living in a coastal city. Ehh probably not going to happen.
I had to cut out from the baby shenanigans to go get my haircut.
I fucking hate getting my haircut.
I don’t like being touched, or worse, confined to a place where I can’t runaway from social interaction.
I go to the same Viet lady every time. I swear, I’ve watched her quietly cut dozens of people’s hair, but she doesn’t shut up the entire time she cuts mine. It’s insane. Today, I spoke to her more than all of my sisters combined in the last month—it was horrifying. She’s nice though, but her heavy accent makes it impossible for me to respond with anything besides: oh, really? Yea, that’s weird. Damn. Wow. Yea, I think so too.
And she cut my hair too short this time. I went from six inches of aubrown loveliness, to an inch or so. Ehh fuck it. Hair grows back. Short hair is easy too.
Now, I’m back home, chilling with some booze and music, trying to decide if I want to cook Bourbon chicken with a tarragon and mushroom cream sauce, or pork tacos with my Spanish rice, or a steak, baked potato and asparagus—I’m leaning towards the latter.
Tomorrow night, or the next, I still have to check, I’m going up to the city to see my lover. She’s a lovely broken soul, and she’s falling for me.
I’m not a good person to fall for. I’m a good person to fall with. Does that make sense? I don’t know.
We’re better off as friends who debase each other, in the prettiest of ways, on an hourly basis when we’re together.
We don’t only fuck, we listen to Tool and Deftones and Portishead and Incubus and Smashing Pumpkins and a bunch of other music. She doesn’t like hip hop, which is kind of a downer since I’m a hip hop kid through and through, though she does love classics like Passin Me By, but she loves pretty much everything else. I introduced her to a dude name Puma Blue, a cool ass low fi blues musician, who we’re seeing in a few weeks on her dime. I hate that she bought tickets. Luckily, I’m a cheap whore, so the 34 bucks they cost gets her before the show sex, during the sex clit flicking and fingering, after the show ravaging, after shower slow fucking to Puma Blue, a night cap fucking, and the best type of in the morning fucking.
There’s nothing like first in the morning sex. I’ve woken up to my dick already inside of her mouth, or her downstairs place………just kidding, her pussy.
Morning sex is the bees knees.
“The best part of waking up, is a hard as dick to fuck.”
The best part of waking up, is big ass dick in your butt.”
Which one is better? Poll
Anyways, she’s an amazing fucktoy. She knows exactly what she wants, and she wants me to fulfill every fantasy of her’s.
Being a hasbian, she has quite a few things she needs from a man; I’m lucky to be that man.
The one thing I can’t do is rape fantasies. She loves them, though. I can’t even understand how I can fulfill it, since I’m a person she wants to fuck, and always wants to fuck, right? I don’t know. I understand it’s a fantasy, I just don’t understand the dynamics. I don’t think I can do it regardless. I don’t like it. I have my own experience with sexual abuse, and I’ve known many others, mostly women, of course, who’re scared from some type of sexual assault. Not to kill the sexy talk.
Instead, I told my lover I would write her a short story about a guy raping a girl, and her falling In love with her assailant. I feel creepy writing it, and I probably should, but I love taboo subjects, and I love making my lover happy, so I’ll fulfill her fantasy.
Wow, this is far too long.
Here’s the beginning of my lover’s story. It could actually go a lot of ways.
I think I’m going to call her story: I Never Said I Love You
I learned her name a few days ago. I knew it would be something pretty.
It’s a good name. Very fitting.
I guessed Rose, so I was kind of close—they’re both flowers, but her name doesn’t really matter anymore. She’ll never see me again.