That Pussy Will Cost You

From The Pussy

The last thing I haven’t given over to God. Women. I’ve surrendered work money emotions friends family… everything. Go out in the park in the morning, hear the wind hiss in the leaves. Know that I’m a puny mote in the universe. All will be taken care of. Or it won’t. And I’ll die. And it won’t matter.

But women– there’s no let it happen. I’ve been waiting 40 years for fucking reverse Cinderella to come knocking. And– well shit, it happened once but, a) because of my web site and b) she fucking took off.

Women. If you don’t do absolutely all the work, if you don’t make yourself absolutely exceptional, if you’re not handsome, not tall, not rich– if you don’t have absolutely everything, work for decades to get it, grind yourself down to nothing every instant of every day to maintain it, and (in spite of all this) if you don’t appear to just have it effortlessly– you’ll have no women. Once I’d have said “no woman” but I know better now. “Women,” a substance.

No women would be fine. The dream now is Ted Kaczynski. Shack in Montana; bighorn sheep regard me impassively from the hillside. Blue-white mountains. Tall creaking pines. Except you need to be touched. You need people like you need air, or at least it’s a difference of degree not type. So you have this need that squalls 24 hours a fucking day, never gets sated. And if you don’t work– it will never just happen. There’s no good luck with women. Only the luck you make. If I have to do the work I’ll chase what I want. Rawdog moronic teen poets.

The fucking argument I have to have with my sponsor over Angela coming. He’ll be right; it’s indefensible. Stupid on its face to have this insane thirty four years old and therefore not the mother of my children whore come and stay with me. Except: a) it’s cheap and b) my other option is more Tinder dates. Every woman on Tinder is an idiot who will make you sick. There are no exceptions.*

Or have a leathery old Chinese woman gently hoist my balls skyward as she mechanically chokes my raging purple member. If they cleaned you off with a hot towel it’d be OK. But she takes a wad of toilet paper and smears the fat thick fishy smelling drops off your belly and then sprints to discard it in the bathroom wastebasket. That jizz is my DNA. It is me— treat it like it’s something better than dogshit.

He’s concerned that she’s a coke sniffing drunk. Which is true. That she’s insane. Which is true. And last time she went to fuck a god damn bartender named Chase who rides a motorcycle and auditions for CW shows and works at (REDACTED local restaurant). That was the killer. She’ll fuck another man and can I take it. I think yes. If I can keep my abusive stranglehold on her mind.

She’ll give you STDs, he tells me. Normally I’d say impossible, buts she fucks black guys and black people are where STDs come from. They pick them up in prison, spread them to hood skanks who spread them to that one gateway guy who can’t rap so he does slam poetry to white girls in coffee shops. Or no, I’m being racist. Some STDs you catch from being in a band. Syphilis comes from black people. Herpes from wiry punk singers. I’m sure she fucks them too.

*Except you, honey.