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.




Oy, A Boy Annoyed…Enjoy.

I’m fucking hammered. Like sludge hammered.

Actually, I’m twisted because I smoked some Buddha too. Like real twisted. Like thousands of strands being made into a single unbreakable rope twisted. Like throwing that rope over my rafter and twisting it around my neck twisted.

NOw, I’m mellow. I took my pills. Now I’m just languid. I’ve been drugged up for so long I can take a half dozen drugs, some relatively benign, and still function. Though, I probably won’t remember tonight. I have a penchant for doing the worst things on nights I’ll never remember. Then again, I’m getting old, so me being crazy basically maxes out at me walking my dogs at midnight wearing boxer briefs and headphones.

I just got done reading all of my posts. Jesus Christ. What a burden. I did like three things though: my LUna C. Soledad story, my She poem, and a line from one of my recent ramblings: Smoke and music floats above me as I do ash angels on the floor of my garage.

I like the last line. I don’t remember writing it. It made me think of making ash castles in the rubble of San Jose after my lover burned it down with a pretty ciggy. That’s another reference to something shitty I wrote.

I think my writing has gotten better. I’ve decided that I’m going to finish all my drafts before starting something new. It probably won’t last. I have 183–it’s daunting. I’ll likely delete 83% of them.

I’ve been surprisingly level lately, but I’ve been able to manufacture chaos a little here and there. It’s quite divine. I think I’m going to try and go crazy this weekend. I think I’m manic. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m the red-faced conductor of a mangled train of thought.

There’s an angel in my dreams,

with unfinished wings.

Ah, fuck her.


I’ve seen insanity in my dreams

In the form of a being

standing behind a looking glass

staring deep inside of me.

Ah, fuck him.


I used to be able to write poetry. It probably sucked so it’s probably best that I only used to be able to.

I started reading again, yay. I’m about thirty books behind this years quota of forty-five. Not that I haven’t been reading, I have, but I’ve just been reading articles that make my dentist talk shit to me.

That’s to say, they make me grind my teeth…ba dum tss.

I try my best to stay away from news website…all of them. I can’t fucking stand the news. I don’t like when a friend tells me news about their lives. That’s shitty. I’m there for them. I’m just antisocial. I just hate how humanity reacts to things. That’s stupid. I’m a shitty person around others. No I’m not. I love the people around me. They suck too, though.

Yesterday I had a doc double header…my psyche and therapist; I really like them both, though my therapist is my age, and pretty, and semi-good at getting me to freely talk about things I enjoy…it’s weird. I’m catching on to her though. I know what she’s doing. From learning about what I like, she learns why I dislike other things. How boring. She says I’m smart. How stupid. I hate that. I told her she sounded like my teachers. “B, stop being lazy and try. You have so much potential.”

How stupid. I hate that shit.

I don’t want to be good. I don’t want to be great. I don’t want to be smart. I don’t want to be special. I don’t want to be anything. I just want to be left the fuck alone.

YEt, I write on here. How can I want to be left alone while writing a stupid fucking blog post that my future self already posted.

Fuck, I can’t leave the post doesn’t make sense. I don’t make sense.

I want to write a story about a man whose dreams gives his lover nightmares, and how he died of sleep deprivation. That doesn’t make sense.

OY, I ran out of booze. Goodnight.