Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Why did you have to die, you bonehead. How did you go. Were you on pills like they said or did you slip on a banana peel. How will your mom react if she sees me at the funeral. What is this flower on this tree. Why are you not here to tell me. You always knew. Why did you have to die and now I can’t see you anymore. You’re in a fridge at the morgue. I don’t want you to be cold. I want to give you a warm blanket. There has to be a way to make it not true. Wake up. Reset everything. I want to just hear your voice one more time. Your laugh.

I was gonna do a ninth step with you but my sponsor told me not to. Stay away from the girls, he said. But you weren’t a girl that way. What if I’d done a good job. What if you came to AA and lived. What if a unicorn came out of my ass, we could hitch a ride on it, it would suck me off after.

I’ll see you in your coffin clothes and think what you might say about the outfit. I can’t let you go into the ground. Darkness and silence. I don’t want you to be scared.

There was a loose pit bull on the street this morning. Looked like yours. What if it was, I thought. You lived 15 miles from me but I chased him anyway. Because what if you warged into him like Jon Snow. Came and found me. The neighbor’s pit chased him away. What if you got hit by a car. I’m a sane adult and I’m scared your spirit is inhabiting a dog. It knows enough to get to my apartment but not enough to stay off Sunset Boulevard. Year of Magical Thinking shit. I wanted to reread that book before making this post, but I lent it to you I think. Little awkward getting it back.

When my cat is out at night I go call him. Coyotes coming; he’ll get shaken to death by his neck. Too long and every shadow starts to look like him running toward me. Same with you now. Every breeze is your spirit. Every animal possessed by you to look me in the eye, and tell me: what? What is the message from the dead? Would you really inhabit a squirrel in my trash can. Look up from worrying a Jack in the Box bag with one french fry in it. Wordlessly tell me the meaning of life. Knowing you: maybe. I saw a green finch and I stared and stared until I heard your voice. You said: retard, you’ve seen this same finch fifteen thousand fucking times. It lives here.

What can I say about her. She was smart. She was funny. She was pretty. I loved her as much as I’ve loved anybody. She loved me like that too. I’m glad I got to feel that. Now I’m glad I remember.

She took care of me. I took care of her. When she took too many pills I’d turn her over. One day I couldn’t. It hurts. I wish I’d said something. Told her life gets better when you stop this shit. The world goes deeper than what you know. What you’re running from isn’t so bad. But I can’t tell her now, so I’m gonna tell you:

Stay here.

Stay with me.

No matter how much pussy I get I’m Elliott Rodger. Couples on the street make me sick. Tepid Tinder response means I’m a chromosome damaged power line baby. My mom should sue a drug company. No response means I don’t exist.

Had a date yesterday. I liked her. She’s pretty. Likes the same books as me. She too is a writer toiling in obscurity. Worried about losing her voice in work, worried about time. We lock in on the same sentences in stories. I want a relationship. So I did what my sponsor told me: don’t make a move. Instead I said: I’d like to see you again. Peter Brady voice crack. She said yes but I think she was lying. At the end I gave her a peck on the bottom lip. We agreed to go to dinner this week. I felt like I had no dick.

Fuck right away or nothing. Fuck right away or they hate you. Fuck right away or you’re a worm, and the horror of seeing it proved over and over.

Went inside and tried to jerk it to her but I couldn’t make it stick. Had to switch over to the fat Chinese girl stuffing her grapefruit tits into a black bikini top in the Target dressing room. I masturbate to women I don’t like. That’s who I can build a story around where they’d fuck me. Hideous in itself, but also: she’s a human being. An artist. Worried about losing her voice in work. We share things but she looks a certain way so she’s a hole. She wouldn’t fuck me so I went into my “good” date with no swagger. I resent her for that.

In my heart I’m thirteen. The first age where you get girls or not. Whatever happens after, you’re stuck that way. You either get on the bus or the fucker pulls off and you’re chasing it forever. Making up for thirteen when you’re fifty.

Meanwhile girls fly to fuck me because of this web site. Mail me their panties. I’m fucking a Pasadena City College freshman with CUNT cut into her arm. She stops by, eats chicken, sticks her sweaty summer twat in my face, its fill-me-with-babies-teenage perfume. Sits on my cock until I cum like a machine gun. Leaves with a kind word. I like her spirit. Her perfect teenage skin next to my grisly middle aged sac with its snowy hairs like Kenny Rogers’ beard. She talks about her homework and it makes me hard.

If I text her and she’s doing laundry I think: she’s leaving me. Sometimes when she’s with me I think she’s leaving. I can literally feel thirst while my dick is inside a hot young teen.

This is why I hate women. They’ll leave me because I don’t like myself. Then I don’t like myself because they leave me. When does it stop. Maybe if I joined a band.

God will not get you any pussy. He cannot cure cancer. Or at least, He won’t. He won’t get your kids home safe; He won’t save your job; He will not affect your AIDS test. What He will do if you can get through to Him is remind you that it doesn’t matter. God is your insignificance. God is the knowledge that you’re already dead. The world moves on as if you were never there. One day it’ll be as though the world itself was never there. Your mistakes, less meaningful than the death of a liver fluke. Like your happiness.

You were never born. You never lived. When you’re dead things are just the way they’ve always been. Somehow by some accident you exist for half a second. Hear a woodpecker in the park. Take a couple good shits, beat off and die. Even if you’re Hitler– you were never there. Do what you want, or don’t. Fail. Never leave the house– or do, go nurse orphans in Somalia. Who gives a fuck; it’s all nothing. Your pitiful instant divided by infinity is so much of nothing that zero is too big a number to express it.

What a relief.

I want to chain you to a pipe. Stop taking birth control. Move into my sweaty apartment. Let go of your possessions. Your pets. I’ll ladle water down your gullet. Sop up your waste. You’ll live off fruits I baby bird down your throat as I impregnate you again and again. Build a bunker underground for our hundreds of offspring. With whom I’ll also breed.

Let me cocoon you to my futon in 1,000 layers of Saran Wrap until you’re an atrophied putrifying jelly. Just a mouth hole and a little bit of face poking out. Only sensory input is my Q tip tickling your eyelids.

Let me bang your fart gas into my aorta with a sharpened turkey baster. Let me war paint with your period. Squat over my face and give me your diarrhea as bronzer. Get AIDS and cut my name into your neck and let me roll in thorns and shower in your dripping AIDS blood. Chew out my eyes then spit them down my dickhole as we 69 to REO Speedwagon. I want to weasel my whole being into your ridgy colon. Shit me out on your palms and lick me off. I need you, I need you to need me. How about it.

Good morning. Tuesday. Desperately want to not go to work. Don’t want to go to the gym. Don’t want to write. Just want free money and pussy. Just want to impregnate a hundred teens, have everyone else pay for my babies. Worship me as a god. I just want blimps with 800 foot LED pictures of my face a la Blade Runner humming in the airspace over schools telling kids their highest ambition should be to take my seed and clean my stove and be entombed alive in my pyramid. I just want my face stapled to Japanese junior high muff with the long straight jet black toilet brush textured pubes while I’m fed by enema. Never work never pay bills. I’d still find something to complain about.