Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Don’t ever work. The Earth used to provide for you. You were made to wake up, spend a few minutes impaling one animal that would feed your village for a week. Then lay around and fuck all god damn day. Look at the stars. Make up stories– there’s the Great Buffalo. The Great Crow. The Great Squirrel, whateverthefuck– hey let’s fuck some more. There was no get sick suffer long die old. You got fucked up a little bit, you were dead. So if you were alive you were perfect.

Now– the opposite of what you were made for. Work, stare at a screen, worry about your god damn 401(k). Will it be enough to sustain you and your wife and your kids whom you spent a million dollars college educating so they could have enough to sustain their wife and kids. You inherit nothing. Everything must come from the sweat of your brow while hustling liars steal it from you.

I’m fucking 40 years old. A middle aged man. Live alone in an apartment with cat hair in the rug. Half cotton half poly wrinkle free dress shirts. I’m an ordinary working American they talk about in campaign ads. Except I’m alone, no one loved me, no one married me; the only thing that could be worse is if someone had. I have a stupid web site nobody reads. This is the standout achievement of my life. I tried to turn it into money by asking three dollars for the shit that was the pinnacle of my inspiration. It did not make me famous. 40, running out of people to compare myself to. Houellebecq and his god damn too hard to spell name– at 39 he’d written Whatever. A revered cult sensation.

Then again it wasn’t until The Elementary Particles that he could even quit his job. You can’t write for a living. People whose sixteen hour days are Taylor Swift is Problematic and Top Ten Tips to Market Money Management to Millennials barely get by. People who actively sell out their dream can’t get paid. Too many people want to write. Life’s work worth less than laying cheese on Quarter Pounders.

One person writes good shit on the internet. Cat Marnell, who had a trust fund and a free apartment and unlimited speed. A room of one’s own. She could barely crank out ten columns for Vice. Her XO Jane shit still had to be half about mascara. She got a half million dollar book deal that will never earn out and God knows if she’ll even make the book. Will it be pure raw brilliance like her rhyming Vice piece or will it be fucking garbage like 99% of her shit and yours and mine. Anyway she’s younger than me. Someone gave her half a million to write a book. My book made one month’s rent.

Can’t make a living. Society: complete shit in every respect. We worship money grubbing lying hustling Ryan Colin Kavanaughs. Mothers tell their children: grow up to be Mark fucking Zuckerberg. Other days what saves me is: it’s just another day. Today’s the fucking day I turn 40 years old.

Hadn’t expected to be this miserable. I’d heretofore considered my job a “good” job. Now it’s killing me because I’m good at it. They heap on responsibility. Fine. I’ll leverage it into money, which I’ll hoard and fucking hope to God it’s enough to take some god damn time off and write before my mind goes. Already slipping. Thoughts eyes muscles leaving me. I’m turning slow and stupid and I forget big words but on the other hand when I’m rawdogging a fat 22 year old half Korean off Tinder I instantly get hard again after nutting in her navel. My cock still works. Will 22 year olds still fuck me since the odometer rolled over.

Don’t want to turn 40 this morning. Take stock of my life. Not rich not married no kids. I have a mildly popular blog and I can play Bach on guitar– the achievements of a 17 year old. Help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety– for what. So they too can be platitude spouting jerkoffs.

Don’t want to turn 40. Turn back the clock. Yesterday I was working. The day before that and the day before that. Then I was at dad’s funeral. Shaking hands with my cousin Steve. Been 20 years. He went bald and his face turned into a cave man from the museum. He’s cockeyed now. He once set himself on fire trying to illegally burn garbage. He has a girlfriend and a kid. I’m less than him.

It’s over. You’ll never achieve your dreams. Thank God. Relax and beat off. Being 20 wasn’t so fuckin great either.

It’s over between us, she says. She’s mad about this thing again. Where are the girls who don’t dredge up old shit. Just because it’s time; you haven’t fucked up in a while. Girls who don’t make you prove it. Girls want you to love them but not so much it’s clear they can do better. Listen: I love you, cunt. Leave it alone.

I’m tainted by the the manosphere. I think it’s a “shit test.” My internet peers hate women but just want a wife and kids. You stay home I go work. Saturday I cut grass in the cul de sac while you occupy yourself with weaving. But women work now. Jobs pay half as much. We have the same money but the work just multiplied. And besides you’re fat and you hate me so I might as well just jerk off into other people till I’m dead. A bad belief system but what else is there.

Meanwhile girls ask where are all the good men. Smart funny stable tall handsome rich men with no ex wives and kids. Well where are the big tits big ass perfect teeth child’s face Asians. The ones who turned 18 today and aren’t already a side piece for Vincent Gallo or Devendra fucking Banhart. Where are the girls who play chess at strong expert level. Any level. Where are the girls who identify hummingbirds based on a vermillion versus magenta gorget. Its neck’s 3/8ths of an inch thick and she can tell watching it drink from my neighbor’s hyacinth at 20 feet. Or at least, where is the girl who thinks anything. About any topic. She was it. It’s over between us.

Well good luck out there, numbnuts. I don’t need you. I’m a 40 year old male secretary and I go to bed at 9PM and I still shred two new pieces of ass a month. Inner life is sadness, dreading the morning, scrutinizing my widows peak; watch my eyeballs turn permanently red like I’ve always just had an airbag deploy in my face. Giant scrotum; weird bulky potato nuts. Dick a shriveled blue acorn at temperatures below one hundred eight degrees. While my nuts expand, expand, seething and squirming like a gypsy moth tent in the trees.

Face coming to resemble a bad Halloween mask, body unmistakably dying and it wasn’t much to begin with. I consider myself smart but at this age smart better mean money. A professorship. Something cool a girl can tell her parents and her cunt friends. Anyway I still shred pussy so you better keep your ass in check. Don’t make waves; I’m not afraid of the punks you date in Texas. See if they can write three paragraphs about the skin of their balls at 6:30 on a Monday morning. Cut it down and down. See if they keep you interested with something that’s not money. They talk about football. They wear white tube socks. They are white tube socks.

I can take you or leave you. Made peace with my genes being extinguished. Dying alone. Living at fifty, sixty in this same – I was going to say squalid apartment but there are flowers in the park. Good neighbors. Redtails, goshawks, owls, a kestrel. Many hummingbirds. Woodpeckers thrushes robins blue jays; mockingbirds, of course, but also still song sparrows. An unkindness of ravens who have words. Butterflies, gophers, fat underage Mexican teen cunt cracks in yoga pants. All this when merely the clouds would be enough.

I’ll never get married. Never have children. I’ll suffer and die alone and I’ve made peace with this so go fuck yourself with it’s over between us. You emotional terrorist. It’s over between me and the fucking planet. I love you baby but don’t push me. What holds people together anymore. All I can do is tell you take a fucking walk. I’ll fuck a hummingbird.