Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

She’ll get over it when she gets over it. Women are like the weather. All you can do is get under a roof. You’ll never see her again. This was your last chance to feel something. She’s pretty but that’s just inconvenient. Every rich prick on earth chases after her. She’s compelled to be with them like me with the college girls, he thought. But they don’t have what we have.

But what if they do. What if she has 20 men she shares herself with and there’s enough to go around.

She believed in God and helped disadvantaged teens. She did coke and fucked married men and got rape me drunk four nights a week. She was a good writer. That alone, impossible. What did I lose it for, he thought. I didn’t mean anything bad. He’d written ten things calling her a cunt and each one got a text saying: I loved it. But the last one didn’t have the little hook. The bit about this is why I love her. It had a title with the word “pussy,” ensuring many views. People like to read fuck cunt pussy.

She never loved me. She was just bored. Now she’s not. You can have her as long as she doesn’t have a better offer. Or a job. Her own money. A Nintendo. A dog. A Netflix show she likes. You can have her for as long as she’s desperate as you while everyone offers her everything. You need a woman so damaged she drives everyone else away. A woman as lonely as you. You need a retarded woman, he thought. A woman who had her legs chopped off. Not an inspirational one who runs marathons on carbon fiber sticks either. A woman with chopped off legs who’s miserable. You need Terry Schiavo on full life support; spoon her pureed butternut squash, watch her squint trying to comprehend Dora the Explorer. She’d still find a better deal. Good luck out there, he texted, and erased it.

Now she’s not coming and I could text her back but it’s gone too long. Anyway she’s getting fucked in Mexico, he thought. Good luck out there. I must admit I’m half in love with her. More fool I.

Tell me you love me. Come see me, stop drinking and start going to bed at 9PM, get over your need to be with rich guys; stop fucking douchebags and doing cocaine but don’t ask me to stop fucking Tinder cretins. Live in my apartment like an appliance. Be a refrigerator for my dick. A dishwasher for my balls. A garbage disposal for my ideas. Tell me how great I am and that my chicken is delicious and then leave. Come see me and stroke my ass like the old Chinese lady who jerks you off at the shady massage place but do it for free and let me beat you at Scrabble. All you have to do is be pretty. And want nothing, or want so little that what I have is enough.

I had a new OKCupid message. Got excited for a second. It was a man. He said: write some more you lazy fuck.

My dad died Monday morning. I was fresh off the plane back in LA. Made amends on his deathbed. He was in and out of consciousness. Who knows if he heard what the fuck I said. You sacrificed for my education and all I did was get high. You wrote me letters and I never wrote back. I blew off my brothers. Patrick went to college in California and I only saw him twice. This was selfish, isolating and disrespectful of me and I want to make amends for it.

He’d come in and out. A tube dripped vanilla Ensure straight into his stomach while a pump breathed for him through his tracheotomy. Hoses and catheters and his feet raised up on cushions to drain his swollen ankles. They gave him Haldol; he was struggling. His kidneys were shot so the drugs didn’t fade. He just kept nodding off. Dad I want you to know that I’m gonna be closer to my brothers. My stepmom. That I’m gonna be there for them.

He died. I was at work. Kept working while white noise filled my head and chest and I couldn’t cry until I got home and saw a picture of him on Facebook. Finally that site was good for something.

The Dirty Mexican Cunt is living with me now. She was a professional grief counselor. The old joke is: whore in the bedroom chef in the kitchen. I forget what the third one is. Should be whore in the bedroom, grief counselor every other place. A whore for five minutes and then it’s OK baby it’s OK. She’s with me because of this web site. Haven’t posted in two weeks. Write some more you lazy fuck.

He’d wake up restrained and start screaming: hide the guns. I didn’t shoot anybody. Thought he was in jail in Texas. On the trip out West with Santangelo and O’Hara– I’m using fake names, but they’re actually less guinea/ mick than the real ones. Fakes because Santangelo killed a (REDACTED) and he might still be alive somewhere. Dad had cops in three towns plus the staties after him because he (REDACTED). I don’t know what O’Hara did. Back then you could just leave town.

Tonight, back on a plane for the funeral. In between– work, come home. The poor girl– I brought her here to party. Get some drama. Last time I got four good posts out if it. Now she holds me at night and I cry. I think about impregnating her. Have a kid I can take to the lake.

Maybe I’ll get some ashes. On Christmas I’m climbing Mexico’s tallest volcano. Seems like his speed. But when I go, take me to the lake where he took me. We watched the rain beat the water flat. Crouch down, line up your eyes right and see the curve of the Earth. I need to get back.

Of course I can’t fucking write this morning. Needed to prove something to myself. I’m fucking 40. 40. I’ll die young. Dad died at 67. So did his dad. His dad and his dad and so on. 27 years left.

Whatever– that’s a long time. Three weeks would be a long time. 57 minutes until I have to leave for work. Feels like planets could coalesce out of space dust, go through volcanic cataclysms, roaring flaming atmospheres. Sentient algae come into being. Form civilizations. All that could happen in the eternity it took me to write that fucking sentence. By the time I go warm up the Subaru, sixteen pages of this stream of consciousness shit. Maybe one sentence usable. People say life is short. It isn’t. Not even in retrospect.

40. The whole time broke. Didn’t write for ten years. When I started again it was garbage. Still garbage. No one reads it. And that zero cut in half since I stopped telling bald dorks how to get OKCupid pussy. No one’s interested in my shit. Except–no, I get emails occasionally. Keep at it man. Your shit saved my life. That feels good. Or, better still: I’m a girl, let’s fuck.

Lately though it’s people wanting work on resumes. Here’s a resume tip: jam a fucking AIDS needle in your eye. You read how I hate work. How the only thing I hate worse is job seeking. You think what this guy needs is to work on my resume. Go back in time, become a fetus and get Zika. One of them was a Viet girl. Thought it might turn into pussy. But she’s gay. Go get a job being gay.

Here’s my advice. Burn your resume and never get a job. Never. My mom inculcated the value of work by having me get a job at McDonald’s. It taught me I’m a piece of shit. Worthless meat occupying space to– I want to say “flip burgers” but I stop myself. The McDonald’s clamshell grill sears both sides of the patty simultaneously. I’m meat taking up space at the Quarter Pounder station until they can figure out the robots. A liability sucking four bucks an hour from the system.

All I wanted was to write this morning. Plus at least $2 million for free and to impregnate a fifteen year old Asian. It’s my birthday and it sucks and I’ll be miserable. Have to go to fucking work. A mountain of tasks. They may or may not throw me a surprise luncheon that I don’t want but if they don’t do it I’ll be pissed. The staff– women who won’t fuck me so why are they alive.