Sunday et Fin

Post wise, it was a fairly good weekend, though nothing too creative.

I’m happy to be back and interacting with the lovely folks of WordPress. I hate social media, always have, but this community is so pretty and inspiring and encouraging—it’s kind of surreal how much I like it. I’m a cynic and a pessimist, so I tend to look at every good thing expecting the worst or searching for a catch, but I’m happy to say, I don’t need to do that here. I’m still suspicious of the kindness and support towards me and my writing, but that’s just because I’m a chemically unstable, paranoid asshole, though I’m learning to believe all of your kind words, and all of the kind words I receive in my real life, and kindness in general.

I learned a weird thing about me today: I don’t wear boxers most of the time. Yes, I free-ball. How did I not realize this? I have no fucking idea. I’m neurotic and obsessive and hyperaware, yet I’m also an oblivious ditz. What’s weirder is, none of my past lovers have ever mentioned my lack of underwear. Maybe it’s a new thing. I don’t know. I do develop weird quirks out of nowhere, often having to do with things I deem unnecessary—so maybe that’s what happened. Again, I answered my question shortly after posing it to myself. I’m a weirdo. And there has been some head and/or ball out oopsies while cycling. Yea, I’m a moron. I knew I often go free-ballin, I just have horrible short term memory. This is my thinking process, folks. A dumpster fire, yea?

Hmm I actually feel like writing more.

Some new things in my life: I changed roles recently at work, with an embarrassingly small raise that makes me want to firebomb my building(that’s a joke, NSA, not a threat), but I’m kind of stuck at my job right now because the healthcare plan they provide is amazing—a must for the amount of therapy/medication I require to half-way function—but I really need to start looking harder for a new job, preferably telecommuting and independent contracting. Anyways, I’m now a Graphic Support Coordinator; it sounds fancy, and definitely looks good on a resume, but it basically means I coordinate our Graphic Support team (duh) to fix live designs and root designs on our marketplace, work with engineering(who are crazy smarter than me, and autistic…I think) to fix issues in the tools/programs we use and propose updates and fix/report glitches. I do a lot of shit on the side, writing instruction manuals for our tools and processes is probably my favorite task, that I do despite having a team that could do it for me—I guess that’s just my love for writing. I’ve had a few “that email was fantastic, I want you to write all mine,” which is pretty funny, to me. I love writing epic emails, that, unbeknownst to the people I’m sending them to, is just me mocking the company, and my bosses, via verbose explanations for inane processes that could be explained in two long sentences. I find it hilarious, but again, that might just be my weird personality.

Alright, no more work talk. How about some spicy stuff: I met a new girl, one that my lover will love once I surprise her with our new plaything. She’ll be the super freak in the equation. Some of her fets involve fire play(scary) rape play(I’ll never do, not my thing) extreme dominance(I’m down) being fucked on top roses, thorns and all(kind of interested in, but I don’t like wasting pretty flowers) double domination(down, but my lover is not very dominate) cutting(ehh no) watersports(the name is creepy, but peeing on girls in the shower is funny, not sexy) and a bunch of other interesting fets, many I have never heard of, nor will ever likely try. I’m still the vanilla one, but I love to please, so I’m pretty much down for anything, as long as it doesn’t creep me out. Dominance is a weird thing for me; I’m able to be a dom, but I’m such an easy going, you do you, type of person, that it makes it hard to tell a girl to shove her ben wa balls in her ass then lick my cum off my boots(yea, TMI? sorry). I’m a novelty whore—I love trying new things in all aspects of my life—so I’m constantly looking for new ways to get my rocks off, and the number one thing that gets my rocks off, is getting another person’s rocks off. That makes me a good lover, I guess.

Hmmm what else? Ohhhhhhhhhhh I bought a new bike. Fuck, she’s amazing. Her name Is Cabrini Green. She’s a mean 24 speed with disc brakes and an incredibly sexy lime green frame. Fuck. My lover got mad because I describe Cabrini like she’s a gorgeous woman. Sorry, I’m a cyclist :). I can’t wait until spring. Currently, I bike 30 miles a day, but once the weather gets better, I’ll double that, on average, and likely triple it more days than not. I fucking love riding; it’s so fucking fun; it makes me feel so fucking free. One day, I’m going to disappear on my bike. Head south down the coast, into Mexico to chill for a bit, then smash through the rest of the shithole Central American countries(sorry, they suck) except for Nicaragua, it’s beautiful, then skip the first two countries(?) in north east South America(?) and go straight into the non shitty countries, then Brazil, and settle in Uruguay. I think that itinerary is correct haha. I’m fairly knowledgeable geography wise, but I got drunk while writing this.

Uruguay will be my home one day, maybe Argentina, though I’ll be outwardly anti Che Guevara if I live in the latter; he was an asshole, murder, and hypocrite, the last being the worst. I can’t stand people who like Che Guevara, it’s fucking annoying. Yes, he had an enviable life, but as a person, he was shit. A failed capitalist turned communist; a doctor that enjoyed killing people; a homophobe; a possible rapist; he was a slew of shitty things people ignore because he was hot as fuck. HOT AS FUCK. I’m not gay, but I’d bend him over. Jokes, kind of–I’d let him suck my balls.

Simon Bolivar is a real Latin American hero; the George Washington of South America, the liberator of five(contemporary) countries, an amazing leader and thinker, up there with the founding fathers of America. The US really fucked up by not assisting Bolivar in his revolution. South America would be so much better if the US had assisted two hundred years ago, not turn most of the countries into banana republics. Ew, I’m getting into politics.

I want to move into South America, only a few handful of countries, because they maintain Eurocentric values(people might not that I call it that, but it’s true) that mesh well with my personality. America in a vacuum is lovely, and perfect for me, but I hate the mechanics that keeps it as the world’s soul mega power. Fuck, politics again. I’ll leave it at, I’m proud of being an American, and despite all the shitty things it’s done/does, it’s still an overwhelmingly positive force today…though, it might not(probably not) won’t maintain it’s position for much longer. Hopefully, it goes down the route Sweden made: a former empire(small, yea) that turned isolationist, and created a self sufficient economy(I can’t remember the term for that). FUck, no more politics. I’m drunk and rambling haha.

Oy vey, 1200+ words of me saying nothing—I’m a platinum rambler. I’ll leave this at, I love all of you. Thank you so much for reading and liking and commenting and being you. There are so many unique souls on here—it’s quite comforting. You all make me feel weird and normal at the same time. Thank you. I hope everyone had a great weekend and have a great week. Good night.

And ehhh I’m not spellchecking or going over this again at all, so sorry if there are any errors. Blah blah blah, I say this every time, you know what’s up.

 

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Escúchela, la Ciudad Respirando

So, I was going through my posts and found this. I think it’s from mid December last year. It’s really disjointed; I’m not sure if I typed it all at once or tried to add more to it later.  I opted to post it instead of trash it—might as well. Fuck it, yea?

 

The title of this post is from an amazing song—easily in my top 1000 favorite songs—by Black Star, featuring Common, called Respiration. Black Star consists of Talib Kweli and Mos Def. Most of you reading this probably don’t know who Talib Kwel is, but you might know Mos Def from a few movies; my favorite being Be Kind Rewind with Jack Black. It’s a great flick, check it out. Common also does a lot of acting now, but the only one I can think of off-the-top is Smokin’ Aces. I haven’t gotten the chance to so see Black Star perform, or Common, but I did get to see Talib Kweli at a now-closed club in downtown San Jose. It was my second favorite club back in the day. I got jumped outside it one time for dancing with a pretty Viet girl who, unbeknownst to me, had a gangster boyfriend looking down from the balcony of the club as she happily grinded on me. Him and two other dudes crept up behind me while I was smoking in the alley next to the club. I got my ass beat, but it could’ve been worse. I managed to rock one of the dudes with a right hook as I got up from the initial punch to the back of my neck, before catching a mean punch to my temple, putting me back on the ground for them to stomp the fuck out of me. Temple shots are mean; a perfectly placed punch causes blindness for a few seconds—every fighter knows this. Temple, nose, jaw: those are the knockout points My Marine father taught me. Temple shots hurt like a bitch, but I rather that than nose or jaw. I’ll take a hard kick to my dick over a massive jaw shot. Even if it doesn’t dislocate or break it, a hard hit to the jaw will force you to eat applesauce for a few weeks. Luckily, the jumping didn’t cut or break anything, but it fucked up my ribs for a month. My bestfriend’s Norteno cousins offered to help me find the dudes who did it, but I said na. I was grinding on his girl, I would fight me too—though jumping is pussy shit. It was my third jumping, and fifth or sixth time getting my ass beat. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve lost fights—if you fight enough, you’re bound to lose some. I actually think it’s good for you. Geez, this makes me sound like some type of tough guy. I’m not. I’m stupid.

Fuck, I’m rambling again. I always fucking trail off, digress, fuck up the rhythm and intentions of my posts. I wish I was able to write structured posts or articles. The Do’s and Don’ts of Fucking Killing Yourself would be a good one.

Anyways, the title of the post…it roughly translate to: Listen to her, the city is breathing. It was nearly my first tattoo, but my dumb sixteen year old self was smart enough to decide it was a bad idea to have a homeboy, who just started tatting, attempt to blast the quote across my collar bone. Fuck, that would’ve been bad. I have a couple tats done by homeboys that came out fresh, but garage tattoos are a gamble. One of my nephews had a Oakland crip tat the San Jose Sharks logo on him; It’s a horrendous tattoo, and it’s huge—about  1′ x 1′—the type of shitty tattoo requiring an artist who charges $500 an hour to fix.

See, again, me digressing. How annoying. Fuck it, I’m just going to write everything on my mind…maybe it will somehow connect at the end.

On Friday night, my lover’s good friend put on a one man show at the Randall Museum of Science. It’s a pretty spot sitting on a hill in central SF—a short, though steep, walk up from Castro St., the gay capital of the world and perfect place for her friend’s show: Just a Gay Jewish Boy Living with His Parents.

We were thirty minutes late to the 8 o’clock show because she wasn’t dressed when I got to her place at 7:30…literally not dressed, unless you count the nipple clamps.

It was 8:01 by the time she swallowed my cum. We threw on our clothes in 93 seconds, and I ordered an Uber as we walked to her building’s elevator. On the ride down she lifted her skirt and told me “Whoops, I guess I forgot to put on panties.”

Fucking shit I’m being over-descriptive. My apologies, I’ll spare you the sordid two paragraphs about the 11 minute Uber ride I fingered her in, and the funny paragraph about how we couldn’t get into the museum because they lock the doors after a show begins to prevent people from interrupting it…like we did.

Alright, so we got into the place after security caught us on camera shaking locked doors. They laughed at us, then directed us towards the auditorium. We stopped by the mini bar and had a few glasses of complimentary wine. I left a twenty in one of the glasses. There’s a special place in hell next to murderers and boring people for those who don’t tip properly.

I was sloshed already, drinking nearly a pint of hundred proof on the thirty minute ride up to the city, and my lover was stoned, and slightly tipsy off wine and cum, so we literally stumbled into the packed auditorium filled with the worst type of SF art snobs—the type of fart huffers who’d spend a few grand on a canvas painted white. A few people scoffed at us as we loudly creeped down to the last two seats in the front row. Before sitting down, I scratched the corner of my eye with my middle finger, and stretched a bit, before being pulled down by my laughing lover.

I wish I remembered more of the show. It was truly amazing. The only performance art type of show I’ve ever liked. Not only did he have an amazing voice, he interacted with the crowed so naturally I forgot other people were there. It was mesmerizing. A few tears even dripped out of my normally desolate ducts when he spoke about his grandmother, and her surviving the holocaust, and the current discrimination of the economically efficient populous.

The only part I didn’t like regarded current politics. I don’t want to hear that shit. I know it’s important, but people seem to be exponentially more irrational these days when politics comes up. Everyone is hypocritical: for me but not for thee type of shit, if you know what I mean. And California has the worst types of these people. The people in that auditorium probably cry about racism and bigotry, yet think giving a few dollars to a homeless black guy makes them better, all while living in gated communities, never setting foot in the neighborhoods they act like they care for. Yea, that’s it—that’s the most political I’ll get.

After the show, we stayed long enough to tell her friend how good the show was. He was just as bubbly and personable and goofy in person as he was on stage.

It was still relatively early so my lover and I decided to take a walk down Castro. It’s a beautiful street, filled with beautiful people, all having fun. The clubs were filled with topless men and women grinding on each other to EDM, high off molly and coke. Neither of us wanted to party. “I’m too old for that shit,” I told my lover, which basically means “I’m not trying to do drugs tonight”.

Instead, we went back to her place to play with some of her new toys….I never finished this part, sorry. I’m sure our night was brimming with debauchery, but I can’t remember the specifics and don’t want to just make something up to fill in the gaps.

I hate sleeping with other people, in the literal sense, not fucking, but I enjoy sleeping and waking up next to my lover. She’s a beautiful, broken soul…my type of person. I let her sleep while I chopped up some veggies and fruits and beat some eggs for omelets. She still wasn’t awake after I got done prepping, so I sat down with my coffee and stared out her window. Her tenement is located in the asshole of the city, but the view out her window makes up for all of the junkies and gangbangers and dealers. I took the featured from this window. In the background, you can see the SF City hall.; it’s a pretty building filled with ugly people. People out-of-touch with the average citizen. Liars and charlatans, all of them, regardless the party they’re in—though some are worse than others. Politics represents another aspect of life that forces me to choose the lesser of two evils. Dog shit or cat shit. Place your vote. I’m apolitical now. Who cares. I read an article recently about how native San Franciscans are moving out in droves. Want to know the reason? The top two are: It costs too much and it’s too dangerous. How the fuck does that happen. Shouldn’t the city be safer if it costs more? SF is the most expensive city to live in the US. It overtook NY City in the last few years. I’ve never been to NY, but it looks terrible. My lover and I like sitting in the Civic Center Plaza. We chain-smoke and talk about movies, books and sex toys. Smoking ciggies in SF fucking sucks; most people look down at us living chimneys like we just got done punting a kitten, some still smoke because they think it makes them look cool, and the rest are homeless people who will collectively bum an entire pack in an hour unless you say no.  The best thing to do is keep an extra pack with a single smoke in it. “Sorry man, I only have one left,” I tell them. “Oh, can I still get it,” they respond. Fucking rude. We were sitting in Civic Plaza recently when a homeless man came up and asked us for one. I gave him my usual response, and you know how he fucking responded? “I hope one day you’re homeless and aren’t given a cigarette.” I wasn’t mad, well kind of, but I was more perplexed and annoyed at how fucking stupid that sounds. You asshole. You don’t need a smoke. Get a job. Haha.

Oh, and the title of the post. I love to sit down in front of my lover’s window and listen to the city breathe. The sirens, the yelling, the dealers barking offers for every drug in existence, the honks and horns from shitty drivers on their way to do something that doesn’t matter, the sounds of new apartments being built that my collective family couldn’t afford to live in. All of it. I love it. Though, I’m a masochist.

I think my life is boring, but whenever I talk about it to people living elsewhere, they think it’s exciting. I think I’m just desensitized. I’ve done everything. Now I’m living a life of mundane decadence.

 

This was a weird post. I wish I remembered more about what happened. Interesting though.

 

 

How should I begin this?

Hello?

How have you been?

World, I’m back,

Fuck that.

Nothing has changed. I’m still a curmudgeon. I’m still better off left alone.

Though, I think it’s a good idea to attempt to post something of worth on here, yea?

Why?

I don’t know.

I don’t really have anything to say. I haven’t posted in weeks, and I feel like that’s a good thing. I said that I’d delete this blog if I didn’t make it sober into Feb; well here I am, and what? What the fuck? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I learned fucking nothing. I might have well been in a drunken haze for the last month. Instead, I was painfully lucid. Painfully in touch with myself. Painfully aware of all the pain others feel. I fucking hate it. I’m so fucking sick of it. I should’ve never quit drinking. Now I just have pent up anger and annoyance and indignation and all those stupid feelings people who feel too much experience.

I made it to Feb, only barely though. I can’t be around a lot of people sober, so I shut myself in for long periods of time. It’s not them, it’s me–at least, mostly me–but I can’t control my caustic nature. I hate fucking everything. I need booze to function; to like and love; to not sit in a corner and plot the point in time I’ll bash their stupid fucking heads in. I’m crazy, I hate it. I’m nice, really. Or maybe I’m not.

Again, none of this makes sense. Nice post, B—you stupid, fucking moron. Nobody wants to hear your shit. Die.

Nearly four weeks of sobriety and I learned nothing. I didn’t expect to, but I hoped and wished I would. I want something more. I want something more than me but get nothing.

I don’t sit idly. I spent all the time reading about various subjects to better me; none of that retarded chicken soup for the stupid fucking soul or how to not lose your shit and punch your sister in her stupid fucking face.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean that.

What did I do in my sobriety? I added further annoyances to my purview. I binged on conspiracy theories–flat earth in particular. I laughed at morons not understanding basic science while chastising myself for not knowing the same science.

Conspiracies are hilarious. I fucking love them. Of course, I don’t believe them, with the exception of every Jew conspiracy—they really do run the media and control the weather.

I find the psychology of conspiracy theorists interesting. Maybe, it just gives me the chance to not feel like a fucking dolt.

“Oh, the earth is flat? What about equatorial mounts?” silence.

Easy peaxy.

Oy, another rambling post. Did you miss me? I don’t, didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, never would. I s/b put down. What a whiner I am. Sorry.

I can’t remember the day I quit drinking, and I refuse to look it up, but it feels like weeks. I think I’m right. I’ll guess, first week of Jan–so maybe a month? I don’t know. Who the fuck cares? That’s the sign of an alcoholic. Counting the days like a convict in prison. I think I’d like prison as long as there’s a proper library…how stupid.

I made it sober this long because I shut myself out from society. Bedroom, bathroom, road, train, work, and the same in reverse. The same for weeks. The weekend? Locked in my garage chain smoking, with the exception of my lover coming down one weekend to see who I really was: a sober coward.

I made it though. There was one close call. I hadn’t hung out with one of my best friends for a few months, so I agreed to go play pool with him and my brother. I was excited, high off kratom and Gaba (kinda cheating), but soon after getting to my pool hall, my friend came back and told me my ex was there. Normally, I wouldn’t give a fuck–I’d actually trip more that it was brought up at all–but it was an ex I particularly loathe. An ex who spent her time talking shit about me behind her back to friends I introduced her to. An ex who had the personality of whoever her friends were/who she was dating. She was a chameleon, and I actually envied it. I’ve never had the ability to blend in; to adopt the personality traits of the people I’m around; to fit in; to take advantage of other’s desire to find those like them.

I envied her, but I also hate her, because she’s fake. The fakest person I know. Normally, I don’t give a shit about those type of people, but she stole aspects of my personality–and I’m not being a scornful lover–she stole my fucking personality. The same people she thought she could talk shit about me to laughed as she mimicked my personality.

Fuck, that sounds so bad. I’m a piece of shit, not worthy of emulating. I guess that’s why I hate her so much. I have so much self-loathing, so much pain inflicted by myself and others,; so many lonely years, without anyone, without myself…all I had was my personality, and she stole it. I hate her. She stole a black and blue personality and rocked it like it was a name brand. I hate her. A chameleon cunt. A stupid, fucking  biter.

I ignored her at the pool hall. She came up, expecting me to be something(?), I’m not sure.

I told her that my precum has more personality than she does.

I told her that her Asian pussy is equivalent to a black micro dick.

I’m ashamed of what I said, but I’m glad she got a bit of my wrath.

Maybe I should thank her for inspiring me to write a few clever things.

Now, I’m done with her.

and I’m done posting.

I think I’ll be able to post something pretty manana.

Thank you, all you beautiful individualists.

Oh, not spellchecking or rereading :)/

 

Piss Stream of Conscious

I’ve switched to Brandy and given up hope of finishing my draft. Oh well. And so it goes. Cest la vie. All that stupid shit.

It’s crazy how fast I get drunk. Or it’s not, I guess. My drunkenness is boring. That’s not a good thing for me to say or think—it always winds up getting me into trouble.

I have no drugs, with the exception of weed, but I’m not a huge smoker, so the J I’m puffin right now is fucking me up.

Weed is wonderful for certain people. Horrible for others. My brother and I have a phrase for people who get too high: dude’s in Deebo’s pigeon coup. It’s a reference from the movie Friday. In it, Chris Tucker, playing Smokie, smokes angel dust with the homies and winds up cooing in Deebo’s pigeon coup. Pretty fucking funny. Classic stoner movie. There’s a 50/50 chance I wind up in Deebo’s pigeon coup. Though, I have sleeping pills so I can always check out.

I’m in one of those moods. Drunk as fuck. High as fuck. Barely able to see the words I’m typing yet still able to complete sentences with relatively few grammatical errors. Nights like this make me think I can become a full blown alcoholic. Maybe.

What a sad thing: to only feel normal after a healthy amount of hundred proof indifference. My doctor would say it’s not normal, but she doesn’t know shit. She thinks she does. She thinks she’s making gains, but I’m on to her shit, so I’m creating false rooms for her to enter.

Me sabotaging myself again. Me hating myself again. Me not wanting to be fixed again.

Maybe I don’t want to be fixed because I’d have no more excuses as to why I’m a failure. That’s probably it. My sickness gives me an out. It gives me a reason to hate and resent and fight and give up. Or maybe people are shit, and the world is fucked, and my sickness is actually normal. How corny. I hate when people say, “Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you, there’s something wrong with the world; you’re normal.” Fucking annoying. Sorry if any of you feel that way. To me, that’s fucking stupid. We’re all fucked. There’s no hope. There’s no escape.

I can’t kill myself, because my sister or mom or bestfriend or niece might if I do. Is that why people don’t kill themselves? A suicidal domino effect?

I wonder if a depressive singularity is a thing? Or if that even makes sense…probably not. I have dreams—yes, dreams, not nightmares—about the entire world killing themselves at the same time. How stupid for me to think everyone in the world is as miserable as me. To think that everyone looks at social interaction as something I have to do, not something I naturally do, and enjoy.

How fucked up. I know everyone doesn’t think this way, but I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying.

I don’t know anything.

Everything is maybe.

Buddha, I’m stupid.

 

 

How Boring

I’ve been drinking goblets of red wine since noon. I realized why people drink red wine: it tastes like shit, making it easy to drink in moderation. That’s probably not true. On second thought, I’ve bendered bottles of red wine for the same reason. And I guess vodka tastes like shit, but I still drink a handle of it over the weekend. Another one of my theories dismantled by my self shortly after hypothesizing

How boring. I’m stupid.

Anyways, I feel great again. The meds must be working because I usually fucking hate December. It’s cold— and I know, complaining about the weather while living in one of the most temperate places in the world is annoying—but the worst part about this stupid month is Christmas. I don’t remember ever liking Christmas, not even as a kid, though I know I had to like it at one point in my youth. I hate buying presents, and I hate receiving presents. I do like watching kids open up presents, but I like most things kids innocently enjoy. I guess I just enjoy innocence, but too much of it results in me imagining all the ways life will rape their innocence.

How dark. I’m stupid.

New Year’s, my third favorite holiday, is coming up. Yay. I get to tell 2018 to fuck off. Or maybe I should smile at 2018. It actually hasn’t been too bad, I think, but I’m not sure.

We’ve thrown New Year’s parties at my house for the last three years. I always have fun, but it’s probably because I’m always hammered and coked up. This year should be chill though; we have a baby in the house, reducing the likelihood of heavy drugs being present. I don’t think my sis in law even invited any of our drug friends, so I think I’m safe.

I could be wrong. I’m stupid.

My lover is coming to the party. She also doesn’t drive, so she has to take BART down and Uber from the station a few miles away. I’m excited to see her, I always am, but I’m not excited to have all my friends drill her about our status. For some reason, I’m scared that she’s going to tell one of my friends that she wants more. Some of my friends will tell her that I’m not dateable, but some of my friends, who want me in a classical relationship, will urge her to talk to me about actually getting together. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I am not dateable. I’m too moody and too impulsive for classical relationships; she’d hate me after a few weeks. Fuck. I’m getting anxiety. She got on birth control recently because she wanted to see my cum drip out of her. Sorry to be crass. Getting on birth control seems like some next step shit, but I could be wrong. I’m the first guy she’s been with since becoming a hasbian, and she said my dick is amazing. I’m kind of cheating though, using Viagra, but, due to the meds, without it I’m bonerless for weeks at a time. Marion fucking Cottillard could be naked in front of my, begging to suck my dick, and I’d just stand there with a limp snufulupugus. Viagra is kind of dangerous for me, for all alcoholics probably, because I can drink tequila all night and still fuck for an hour. Before, I’d have to drink in moderation if I planned on fucking. Now I fuck like a drunk pornstar.

How stupid.

I’ve been writing all day. Unfortunately, it’s a new story that I’ll never finish. Another depressing draft that I’ll open up, then close, then open up, then close, for perpetuity. Maybe I should stop writing this post and get back to work on the other.

These posts are really getting boring. I feel like I keep on saying the same thing. Maybe that’s just life. Maybe there’s nothing new left to say.

How boring.

 

Rainy Day Rambling

I haven’t posted in a few weeks, I think, so I guess I should ramble a bit.

This post shouldn’t have any grammatical errors since I’m sober and have been for the last week or so due to the Flu. Fucking Flu. I tell myself each year that I’m going to get a shot, but I never do. I fucking hate needles. “But you have so many tattoos,” people tell me, somehow thinking that a big ass needle filled with fluid is the same as a couple dozen micro needles dipped in ink. It’s not even a pain thing, I have a high pain tolerance, it’s feeling the needle break through my skin…fucking gross. Next year I’ll finally get the shot, though. I have to. I get sick every fucking year despite my awesome immune system. I commute via train every day so getting sick is inevitable. The train’s a goddamn moving petri dish. There’s no escape.

Besides the Flu, I’ve been doing good. I just got home from a two day stay with my lover in SF. She’s wonderful. Broken and wonderful. I fucked up last night by telling her, “One day you’ll hate me.” No one wants to hear that shit, but it’s true. I’ll eventually sabotage this relationship like I do with every other. I can only take so much love; so much affection; so much kindness before I snap. I have to. I hate myself. Us self loathers eventually reject all forms of love, however pure. I tell myself I don’t deserve love and affection. And I’m right to think that way.

She calls me her cuddlefuck. I call her my plaything. We’re not together, nor will we ever, but we’re good friends. Friends who fuck each other every hour or so we’re alone together. Unfortunately, my dick stopped working recently. Fucking meds. She says she doesn’t care, and I believe her, but it’s still humiliating going soft inside her after a few minutes. It’s even more sad when she asks, “Is there something wrong with me?” Fuck, I never thought about how ED makes your lover feel; like they don’t turn you on enough to keep you hard. It’s not a libido thing, I’m always horny, my tongue and fingers can play between her legs for hours, all while my cock is shriveled up like a preop transgender on hormone blockers. Maybe I’ll just started poppin’ molly again. That’s stupid.

Speaking of Molly, one of my sisters called me last night high on a quad stack my nephew gave her.

“I’m fucking rolling hard,” she said with a giggle.

“Where are you at,” I responded with a giggle.

“Home.”

“Fucking weirdo.”

She’s going through a divorce right now with her former high school sweetheart. He’s a real scum bag. He knocked a girl up two months after they broke up. Now my niece and nephew have to see their stupid fucking dad with a new kid and new bitch, while adjusting to the divorce. Who fucking does that? I told my sister that she should request full custody. “I already did. The judge doesn’t care that he had another kid so quickly.” The system is fucking broken. Too bad she’s not in Cali still; judges here auto take the woman’s back. She’d have full custody and alimony, but she chose to move to Vegas. I guess the divorce process there has to be different since so many people get drunk, then married, then divorced. Maybe, I’m not sure—I’m not a fucking lawyer.

Anyways, she thought it was a good idea to pop a pill and chill by herself. Bad idea. I love rolling, but I don’t even by myself. I can pop a pill, go out for a bit, then come home and chill by myself for a while before taking sleeping pills so I’m not tweaking until sunrise, but doing the whole ride by yourself is no Bueno. Plus, she’s going through a break up with a guy she started dating recently to forget about the mess of a divorce, so I know she spent a few hours texting I love you(s) and I hate you(s) to him.

I hated my sister growing up, and she hated me. I’m the youngest, and the only boy, so I had a special relationship with my mom and dad. It didn’t help that I have the type of personality that made me easy to raise. My sister would fuck up and blame everyone else. I would fuck up and blame myself. My sister would sneak out, get caught, get angry for getting caught and not talk to anyone for weeks. I would sneak out, professionally sneak back in, not getting caught, and do my chores the next day. I think I just learned from her fuck ups. My sister used to steal my mom’s car, smoke in it the entire night, then wonder why she got in trouble. She’s not stupid so I think she might’ve been doing it on purpose, for the attention.

I’m not exaggerating when I say we hated each other. We got into fist fights all the time. I broke two of her fingers one time because she thought she could slap me twice and get away with it. She got the first slap in, but I caught the second, and twisted the fuck out of her fingers.

I love her now though.

Oy, my tangents.

I’m home for the weekend. I need some time to myself. I enjoy being with my lover, but I can’t spend too much time around anyone—that’s a sure way to make me hate them. How fucked up. But it’s true. How sad. But it’s true.

It’s been storming here for the last week or so. I don’t hate the rain, but I hate prolonged raining. After three days, I’m done. I do hate people who say they love the rain but spend all their time inside, regardless the weather. It’s easy to love the rain when you hate sunlight. How stupid.

I just found out that I agreed to go to another Friendsgiving tonight. Boo. That means I’m going to get obliterated tonight. Mexican Friendsgiving = tamales and tequila.

I really shouldn’t complain. I’ve been spending a lot of time in SF with my lover, so my friends know I’m not in one of my antisocial moods. They’ll think I don’t like them if I don’t go. I love them. My friends put up with my bullshit. “That’s just how you are,” they tell me. Fuck, that’s depressing. I’d happily spend time with each of my friends individually, but groups freak me out. There’s too much going on; too many conversations. I know someone is going to bring up my lover tonight. They’re going to drill me.

“So what’s up with J? Are you guys together?”

“No, we just like to fuck each other.”

I’m a very private person in general, but especially when it comes to sexual relationships. I’ve never been the type of dude to kiss pussy and tell.

I need to try to not get too fucked up tonight. I really want to finish a story tomorrow, and I definitely won’t if I’m recovering from a night of tequila. I could just pop a bunch of my Gaba and hope I won’t mix it with booze and blackout. Oy, that’s not going to happen. El Jimador it is.

My sister in law’s niece, my niece, is spending the next two weeks here while her Mom and Step-Dad are in London. She has downs syndrome and she’s fucking beautiful. She’s inside folding my new baby niece’s clothes. It’s going to take her a long time to fold all the clothes because she hugs each piece of clothing before folding it.

I guess I’ll end this with that beautiful thought.

 

Fuck, I ramble too much. I’m not going to proofread this. I already forgot what I said.

Failure

I just wrote 1188 words to say something that only needed this many words:

I applied for a new position at work. I’ve worked at the company for ten years. I started in production, and now I work a comfy desk job that I’m bored with.

I didn’t get the position because I don’t have a degree. I did a summer course on psychology at community college because I was convinced that I was partially braindead from drugs and alcohol. I got an A- and never went back.

I barely graduated high school. I wouldn’t have graduated without the help of two gay student aids, who thought I was cute, bumping my grade up to a C- in four classes; one teacher who didn’t want to fail anyone because it was his last year; my ability to pass tests despite sleeping in class 87% of the time; and Bush’s No Child Left Behind policy(thanks W).

I got drunk at my graduation, had to be woken up to walk the stage, and threw up as my mother tried to take “one good picture”.

I have a warrant out for my arrest for being an idiot.

I can’t drive cars because of my anxiety and inability to pay attention(which resulted in me getting into 2-3 sober accidents a year).

I have the money management skills of a twelve year old porn addict with a credit card.

I can’t have romantic relationships because they make me sad and/or evil.

 

Fuck, even that was too long.

I guess I just wanted to say that I’m a failure at adulting.

 

 

Oh, to end on a funny note: one of those gay teacher’s aids used to wake up straight guys in class and say, “I want to suck your dick dry,” with a heavy lisp.

The end.