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.


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 :).



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.


Oy Vey

I started another story…fudge. Without looking, I think I have thirteen started. I really need to learn how to finish things and not be an erratic mess of a wannabe writer.

My attention span and tendency to despise everything I work on is a real bitch that I’m having a hard time putting in check.

I know writing shouldn’t be easy—at least good writing—but should it really be this hard? Am I doing something wrong? I don’t know. It’s probably just me.

I think my unpublished drafts contain some of my best writing, but I can’t publish them; likely because it’s too me, too raw, too revealing, which is kind of interesting since many of the people who read my posts say that they like me because I’m raw. Imagine, my current posts are raw, what can be in my drafts? Maybe you’ll find out.

Anyways, the new story is about a failed artist, who previously did anti-war, anti-conservative, generally progressive art, who jumps on the new right/alt-right wave and becomes famous, but feels fake(they are) and dirty for going against their morals for fame and money. I’m not a very good synopsis writer, but you get the gist. Maybe I’ll post the first few paragraphs today.

Bury Your Past. Never Dig it Up…Unless You Want to Get Dirty

I wanted to give you the world

all of it yours

but all I had was sweet nothings

So you turned your back to me

decided to leave


once learning

you lost something



one of a kind

Too precious for you

pure and refined

                            a diamond in the ruff

                              another one buffed


touched up

Now I shine

with a beautiful mind

That you will never have

She loves me for me

Lives to please

My beautiful beholder

All I have for you now

all you’re allowed

is my hot head and cold shoulder

Soon you’ll be forgotten

A slice of my past

Putrid and rotten

Too nasty to taste

Love and hate

are too precious to waste

on those not worthy

So leave me the fuck alone.



I’m not very good at poetry….but I tried :).

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.



I Can’t Finish Anything

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t finish shit. I start writing, get into it, then realize I have no fucking idea what I’m writing about, or why I’m writing at all. I keep adding to my drafts, occasionally adding a sentence here and there, but nothing ever gets completed. I know it’s me, but I don’t know how to fix it. I know it’s because I hate everything I do, and not finishing reduces the amount of shit I talk to myself because it’s hard for me to talk shit about something not yet completed, something that might eventually be good. But nope. I hate every post I have on here, but I have hope for every draft. I don’t know. This sucks. I suck. Maybe I need to go back to school and learn how to properly write. I don’t know.

I made it to February sober with the hopes of being able to write after a stretch of not destroying my mind via substances, but my mind is fucked regardless of the shit I ingest.

I think I’m just going to continue to post shit that I’ll never complete. Maybe you all can take it, and make something better, or add onto it to give me inspiration, because, as of now, I feel completely uninspired.

I haven’t started to drink yet, and I know I definitely won’t get shit done if I start to. Maybe getting drunk and spewing on here will do some good. Or maybe I’ll just post a bunch of shit that I’ll wind up deleting manana.

I started writing about a character named Eevee McHale—I’m not sure where I was going, and I’m bored with it:


Eevee hated her apartment. It was old and overpriced and surrounded by homeless people cooking stolen steaks on shopping carts, and gutterpunks shooting up in the corners of boarded up shops they shit and pissed on the previous night. Ambulances and cop cars scream up and down the street on a Sisyphean loop, allowing drug dealers to loudly whisper offers for meth and coke and H and every prescription pill on the market to lost tourists staring down at their phones, nervously typing “anywhere but here” into Google maps, not realizing their phones were broadcasting a signal to every fiending addict in need of cash to feed the gorillas on their backs, until a rare kind soul living in the hood tells them to, “Put that shit away, walk north down Turk St, take a left and walk a block or so until you reach SF City Hall, it’s relatively safe there.”

Eevee knew all this before moving in, but she had no choice—it was all she could afford, and barely afford at that. It took nearly a year to properly furnish her shithole; she saved up to buy an occidental futon requisite for studios, a Persian carpet to cover the petrified wooden floors, wrapped canvases and framed posters to cover the dents and scratches and stab marks in the walls, a fancy retro microwave to ensure the food she attempted to cook in the ancient oven was fully cooked, and a slew of rocks and crystals and incense, she bought from one of the hundred new age stores in the city, to place at the openings of both her doors and one window to protect her from the evil spirits and vengeful ghosts that had to have been dwelling in her murder prone tenement. It was still a shithole, but it was her shithole, and after proper furnishing, it actually resembled the bedroom of one of the two million dollar Victorian houses that every person coming to SF dreamed of living in.

Johnny’s Prompt About a Prompt

Thanks and much love to:


      I wasn’t prompt in my response to a prompt another me created.

          but that’s nothing new.

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?  

i wish I knew.

or simply forgot the thought so I could be free to be me without heed.

Just me! Just B!

I don’t know what that is.

Nobody does.

I am

I was

It’s all been said

It’s all been done.


How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

Must I digress from my digressions?

Must I meta-analyze the metadata of my thoughts?


I shouldn’t stress over infinite regress.

Maybe that’s new?


Plenty of people care about not caring

and plenty of people care about people who care about not caring.

That doesn’t make sense.

Nothing does.

I am and was and is and did everything life has to offer.

Why bother?

No matter how inane

how insane

it’s all been done.

Einstein was right

and we’re all crazy

doing the same thing over and over again expecting something different

a new position

a new religion

a new vision

How many more times can I multiply my personality before going crazy?

I need a proper division of me’s

but first I have to subtract a few

To reach my prime.

To be whole.


How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

                          Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe I should take the advice of an author I can’t think of or find, and write like I’m the first human alive?


How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

There’s no new way to say there’s nothing left to say

                  so why say anything at all.