Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Last night’s AA meeting. The speaker was hot. Fat young Mexican from Moorpark named Stephanie. We flirted for two seconds after but then I got pulled into a talk with a guy. An alcoholic whose life is falling apart who actually needed help. The purpose of my being there. Talked him off a ledge. I feel no spiritual growth from doing this. I regret not letting him spend his child support money on crack. I regret not horning into a conversation with Stephanie instead. Laying groundwork for when I’d pump her fat bald Mexican Moorpark pussy full of babies. Trap her at home changing diapers and yammering in Spanish to some aunt in Pacoima about how I’m a bad man while I’m out drunk. Cheat on her with a bar waitress, a white one. Come home, give her a black eye when she tries to complain. Bitch, give suck to my kids and make burritos and be grateful. Why can’t I have what I want for once.

They hit 30 and the profiles start saying:

My life is perfect. I just need a man to share it with.

At 1AM her chihuahua woke me up licking the back of my balls. I want to say I thought it was her, waking me with a blowjob. But I knew it was the dog. Been woken up by OKCupid girls’ ball licking dogs about a thousand times more than blowjobs. My life is perfect means she has a dog. Dog job BMW cocktails with the girls. Mid century modern furniture. A hanging copper fruit basket. Books arranged by color. She likes you, she says about the dog. She doesn’t usually like men. Heard this a thousand times. I’ve told a thousand women: the cat doesn’t like you. Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t like anybody. Once in a while he lets them get a palm on his back and I tell them this is exceptional.

I don’t give a shit if the cat likes you. It’s not a sign we’re meant to be. You could walk in the room and the cat could scream like he’s on fire. I’d still fuck you. I’d still care how fast you text me back for a week. I’d still stop caring after a week. The cat can run and hide like his back leg was crushed by the garbage truck or snuggle up to your neck. He’s not the one who’s gotta fuck you. True too with the dog. Your new man won’t like the dog. The dog won’t like him. You’ll still end up with him instead of me. Typically he’s British. I hope it’s the same guy with all of them. Same British guy doomed to wander the earth dating Korean yuppies who dumped me.

My life is perfect. Just need a woman to share it with. I have no money. I drive a certified pre owned mid size family sedan. When you lift any object in my house it’s like a log in the forest after rain. Hideous wet invertebrates with poison pincers scatter. Some flee to my underwear drawer. They’ll lay in wait to gnaw my sac with chittering H.R. Giger mandibles and give me instant flesh necrosis. Pots in the refrigerator with mashed potatoes from June blooming with delicate otherwordly fungus. Books covered with dust and old toenails and hollow dead spiders.

I have friends but never see them. Every day wake up alone. Write something not worth reading. Drive to work with the obnoxious radio. Work a job where saying my title makes my dick shrink like I’m eight years old in a cold lake. Collect a salary that puts me in the top ten per cent of all individuals in America, the point zero one three per cent of all people on Earth; I am one of the highest earning people who has ever lived, according to some dick measuring money web site that tries to sell me mortgages. I make three times more than the average family in my city, which is one of the most expensive in history. And my income is laughable. I own nothing but a pile of debt and a laptop. A couple guitars and a bike (edit: that got stolen yesterday). Middle class money is nothing. Even with no wife no kids, one bedroom in a stucco building with a cinder block wall and two wilting agaves in the dirt off the front porch– in terms of pussy, you’re a legless beggar in India.

Money is nothing unless you have enough to brag about. People think there’s more than there is. The median pre tax income for an American household is fifty two grand. To brag you’d have to pay ten times that in taxes. All books and articles and movies and shows are about rich people. All public figures are rich people. All sitcom apartments are worth ten million dollars as a convenience of set design. So being rich looks normal. Just like cop shows make competent cops look normal, because the case has to wrap after the fourth commercial. Really they just write tickets and kill blacks.

Wake up. Write alone. Write shit and spend the day ruminating how your writing is shit. Menial work, lunch break, menial work. The gym, where your pathetic genetic waste of a body groans on every joint with every rep. You’d like to think it’s aging but it’s always been like this. You were always a boneless gangly flopping marionette even at sixteen. The shape your body wants to be, if you skip two weeks of pro athlete level weight training, is floppy daddy long legs limbs hanging off a distended jelly gut. How did my ancestors survive. Why wasn’t my bloodline mercifully extinguished. It’s a gay gym, which means 60 year old steroid blasting freaks with bodies a thousand times better than mine. Fine. Motivating. But gay music. All gyms by law should only play AC/DC. Ramones, Motorhead, Black Sabbath, NWA. Mine plays the HIV remix of Miley Cyrus. The hepatitis remix of Ke$ha. Gay men’s interest in teenage girls: unseemly. I just want to statutory rape them like a normal person.

That’s an hour. Then AA. You’re there to be lifted spiritually by serving others. You spend 53 out of 60 minutes sulking over a better looking guy with the one hot girl. Newcomers identify themselves. You must help them. Get their numbers. Later sit through awkward calls with them like talking to your grandmother on Christmas. Go home. Read woman hating forums and reddit threads about A Song of Ice and Fire. Then bed. Somewhere in there beat off with the Powerful Male Stroker it took 20 years to get the guts to buy. About one day in ten you think about killing yourself. Get mad at your mother for being the reason you don’t. Typically that’s weekends. Typically after you haven’t written anything good. You’ve written a thousand things. Six of them are good.

What good are you if you’re not rich. If you’re not famous. If you’re not– not merely decent looking but exceptionally, freakishly good looking. What good are you if your penis is not nine inches long or more, which girls think is slightly above average. Which is in fact three and a half standard deviations above average. My IQ is probably three and a half standard deviations above average. But it doesn’t hit cervix.

She wants to write. She has writer’s block. An in. You have to know something she doesn’t. Have more money. Be better looking. Nicer car. You have to know more than her about her favorite thing that she spends all her time learning about. You have to be the only person who can solve the One Big Problem Otherwise My Life Is Perfect. Writer’s block is the only problem I can solve. God help me if I had to change a tire.

You solve writer’s block by eating shit and being in agony for years. Force yourself to hammer out worse than useless garbage for hours that feel like lifetimes. Every day, until something clicks and you suddenly need it as therapy. Sit there with a demonic inner voice shrieking at you for a decade. And remember: this is a decade of calendar time. In subjective time, one instant of writing feels like years walking dark mazy corridors of third degree burn self hatred. Like Stephen King’s The Jaunt . Come back with white hair jabbering it’s longer than you think .

Anyway, just do that. Your self hating voice never gets tamed. Even after you get a little known. Make a little money. Girls in different cities mail you dirty panties and buy plane tickets to fuck you and you walk around with a secret. I am INTERNET FAMOUS, god dammit. I am a REVERED CULT AUTHOR, fat Chinese woman selling me gas station cigarettes. That’s what you’re seeing in my eyes. Once in a while your gaze makes other men look down at cracks in the sidewalk. I have 22 “positive” Amazon reviews and my hundred thousand hours of work has earned me almost what I make in one week as a fucking secretary. Look upon my works and despair.