Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Try to remember the dead can’t hear your thoughts. Try to remember there’s no hell. If there is, you’re not going there for writing on even numbered lines in a notebook. Your mother won’t get in a car crash with her face on fire because you didn’t climb stairs properly. All people must suffer like this. They just don’t talk about it. Most able to put it aside. No one goes through the day having normal thoughts. No thoughts at all. Minds just blank drywall. Everyone grew up picturing swarming heaps of black crustaceans. Centipedes under the table waiting for the edge of a finger to brush them so they can latch on. Crawl up your arms. Armored mandibles strip your flesh down. Not to kill you. Just taking skin so your face looks burned forever. Unimaginable pain over every part of you forever. Everyone thinks this constantly. Or is it just you. Anyway good morning.

I wrote another thing about you. The point of it was I wouldn’t be jealous anymore. Jealous of your stupid friend who comes in my comments, hooting about how much he tears up your ass. You fuck men for cash and prizes. Some of them are famous. Inventors. Spies. I don’t care about any of them. But this guy got to me. He has what I want with you. Come over a few nights a week and party. I can’t party anymore. Too old. Have to get up early. Write. Then I can’t write. I feel like less than a man. Fucking another girl didn’t take it away. Maybe liking another girl would. I want to like a girl like I like you.

Thinking through this piece, I got over it. You’re a sick person. I’m a sick person. It’s not good for anyone, for me to feel this way. And besides– jealous over a drunken coke whore. What then is my spiritual growth for.

I made you into more than what you are. Really you’re an (REDACTED) (REDACTED) with (REDACTED and a (REDACTED). But then, there’s a reason men fall for you. And there’s another reason deeper than that, where we connected. I don’t want anyone else to have that with you. Because I don’t have that with anyone.

Wrote after meditating in the park. High wind in the sunrise and the tassels of the tall grass tossing and hissing. The pines creaking. Long yellow magic hour sun rays over all of it. A raven croaking somewhere in his language. I remember from my fifth step that they have words. Somehow I thought it through. I forgave you. Forgave myself. Loved you for who you are instead of what you are to me. And let you go.

I looked back on the material. Thought: this is a good stopping point for the schtick I’ve been dragging out for years. It’s dishonest now. Or at least, not always the way I feel. I have hope for things. People can change. The purpose of this hobby web site is to help other people feel less alone. You can feel less alone about good things too. Hopeful things.

Anyway I figured that out. Hit save and closed the laptop. Went to the duck pond to watch the coots. Back from migration. Opened the laptop to write more. The eight pages were gone. Only one sentence left. It said: I should buy an Xbox and play Witcher 3 . There was no backup. I called a data recovery place. Irrecoverable.

So I guess you’re back to being a cunt.

Weekend. What do I have lined up. AA pancake breakfast. Talk to my parents. Poor mother had a bad dream about me. Now I have to call her. Love my parents. But if talking to someone doesn’t get me pussy I’d rather play Xbox.

Clean the house. Everything is clean the house. Go to the doctor wash the dishes hang with my parents. Drive homeless alcoholics to the fucking pancake breakfast. Wash the dishes there. This pain in my gut is some cancerous organ. Tree fungus all over my innards. I’ll die in agony. This weekend, my last shot before my dick falls off. Spent it helping the fucking hobos. They all have 6 kids they don’t have to pay for and get more ass than me.

I should go to that whorehouse in Chinatown. Pay a hooker to touch me so I don’t go crazy. But it’ll be some 50 year old. What are the odds the Chinese rub and tug by the Sunset/ Beaudry Jack in the Box has a fresh faced junior idol teen. What are the odds she’ll lovingly stroke my ass crack with her hair. Why fuck a whore in America. In the Philippines they kiss you. Fuck you raw. Here it’s a medical procedure.

Pay to be masturbated by an old shrew who doesn’t speak English. Hint of repulsion in her eyes. The only crack in her Oriental inscrutability. If she liked it it’d be worse. You’d start wondering: does she think I’m handsome. Better not blow it.

Less God more pussy. Less AA more money. Less driving fucking homeless people around. More horse porn and coke. I’ve been of too much service to society. I should get a free pass to take a flame thrower to the school gym while the kids are playing dodgeball.

Less humility. More arrogance. Less pulling out. Less condoms. Less comforting some dumb needy tinder idiot afterward. Less not impregnating Pinay hookers. More impregnating Pinay hookers. Less truth more lies. Less spinach more burritos. Less family more dirtbags. More cocaine. More of the girls who come with cocaine. I’ll get viagra so I don’t have acorn dick.

Otherwise what’s the point. I’m a machine for paying taxes.

Someone used to clean your house. Cook your meals. Bear your children. Take care of them. Sleep with you. Sleep with nobody else but you. Hand you a drink when you walked in the house. All you had to do was what you do now. Get up. Go to work. Make money. All you have to do now is: all that. Plus what someone once did for you. What you get is: half what you got before.

Someone used to need you. Listen to you. Now you don’t make enough money. You don’t wash the dishes enough. Work used to be eight hours. Now fourteen. She works fourteen hours too. And proud of it. Someone used to put your kids’ drawings on the refrigerator. Now she emails you Slate articles saying even in this day and age men do 40% less housework. Wash a fucking dish you god damn barbarian. 45 minutes between your drive home and dreams of your boss’s lizard eyes. 45 minutes; how come the dishes aren’t done.

I’m a feminist. But feminism destroyed life. In return 2% of us get meaningless pussy. A woman was a house scrubbing ham baking slave, sure. That’s bad. Now we’re both slaves providing data driven solutions to Millennial brand engagement in the CPG space. Slaves to establishing ownership of the trans teen bullying issue for Johnson and Johnson’s Clean and Clear brand flammable industrial solvent for children’s faces. Twice as many people work. Shit just got twice as expensive. No house. No vacation. 14 hours selling shit to unhappy people who sell shit to stupid people.

Whatever. Things were never good. People were never happy. Why covet an ideal based on Donna Reed reruns. But now I’m nothing to you. You’re a fleshlight to me. This shit isn’t working. I’m not some reactionary. But I do think it would be better if you were sold to me at 13, couldn’t vote, work, read or drive. And if it were legal to beat you.

He was on Tinder. What do you do, she asked.

He was a secretary. His company provided data driven solutions to optimize cross platform branded content. He might have done something else but he’d spent 20 years drunk. The want ad said room for growth.

He built Powerpoints. When a client was on the phone he hit spacebar. Today, a Webex with Wentworth. The media planning agency. They represented the the Clear and Clean Skin Care division of the Nonmedicated Facial Cleansers and Body Washes/ Poufs division of the Consumer Packaged Goods division of Johnson and Johnson. Wentworth was a subsidiary of UAG, which was a subsidiary of Group J, which was a subsidiary of PWW Group. PWW was a holding company based in Paris. Chartered in Ireland for tax purposes. PWW bought advertising time from television stations en masse . Sold it on arbitrage markets it created. The purpose of UAG and thus Wentworth was to help create demand for advertising time. PWW could then buy low and sell high. This was illegal in America. All advertising agencies were therefore subsidiaries of 3 conglomerates out of Europe.