Sunday, October 17, 2021

Don't Throw No Coupons on My Grave

Gonna do some retroactive annotations, corrections, and updates from the future on this post that was in my draft folder from September 15, 2010. The original post will be in bold italics and my responses will look regular.

Well, I've put my move to LA on hold for a couple of months, so I can convalesce without the pressure of relocating. 

I went out to LA on December 11, 2010 to find an apartment. If I didn't find an apartment by the 22nd, I wouldn't be moving to Los Angeles. Shit was not going well for me health-wise, both mentally and physically, so I wasn't going to push my luck if things didn't line up in LA.

Stayed at a friend's house. Let's call him Rick. I was still convalescing from the aftermath of a stomach virus that rocked both of my cocks a few months before. Post-viral gastroparesis it's called. Rick was acting like a dick during my stay. Lodging small complaints about my presence, giving me the silent treatment, etc. I left his house 2 days before my plane back to Chicago. He's not my friend anymore.

Ended up making a few calls and lugged my air mattress to a sparsely furnished apartment that my friend's brother was squatting in. I asked him if he wanted to find a two bedroom apartment to rent with me. He said sure. Found a place and signed a lease the day before my flight back to Chicago. I moved to LA on January 8, 2011.

Right now, I need to mend my body and mind in order to move forward. I thought I could just muscle my way through the constant physical and mental dread, but the more I fight, the worse I feel. Pulsating channels of anxiety course through my body like furious magma, and I've yet to figure out how to vent that shit.

I've figured out how to vent that shit. It's not a perfect system by any means, and I still get caught up in anxiety cycles. I'm in one right now, darling. Heavy anxiety is likely to follow me throughout the rest of my existence. Some days I'm cool with that, and some days I feel like there are a thousand freight trains bearing down on my dickhole. Wouldn't it be great if my urethra was the nexus of my anxiety? I wonder if I prayed to god every night if he'd grant me that wish.

Exercise is crucial as a vent, as is spending time to meditate each and every morning, although sometimes it's less of a meditation and more of a quiet time for my brain to run wild like a dog in a vast field of snow. I've also discovered that fighting anxiety is a poor choice because it doesn't work. But fighting is an old habit and depending on how tired I am, I can slip back into using old methods that don't actually work, but let me feel as if I have a lid on the situation.

Planes are a great example. Since I stopped taking Xanax on planes, I feel the anxiety train gearing up for a trip on the well-oiled rails (more trains, eh?), but I don't react because what good would that do? Tire myself out by clenching and worrying never makes it easier, so I just let the anxiety train gear up and if it wants to tear down the line, I let it, without fighting back or giving it worry fuel. The end result is not relaxation per se, but an absence of debilitating nervousness. It's not exactly a pleasant experience, but it's not a nightmare either. Ah yes, the goal of not living a nightmarish existence. Getting better at this every year. When I'm 72, I'll be so relaxed that the people who take care of me will think I'm dead and bury me alive. But the joke's on them. I never truly lived!  

During the past 2 years, I've had 3 stomach viruses and a two week bout with gastritis. My brain senator cites these facts in his crusade to get my stomach thrown out of office. I don't trust most foods, and I'm afraid that straying from my go-to bland foods will lead to a palace of woe. Food is a chore at this point. Just fuel. It stopped being pleasurable years ago.

Turns out that all this time, I had a bum gall bladder. It didn't officially give out until the end of May 2017. When the surgeon took it out, my gall bladder was a black and green slime filled chunk of what looked like rotten Nigiri sushi. Had to have a procedure the day before to snip the end of the bile duct in my liver, which was clogged with thousands of poppy-seed sized stones that my gall bladder sent its way. 2 procedures involving anesthesia in 2 days left me in a daze. Throw in not being able to eat for 4 days and woooo! Almost died!

Also, my stomach still isn't great, but it's better than it was. Ashkenazi Jewish genetics means stomach problems. There's nothing I can do. Sucks, but name one thing that doesn't.

I've had so many nauseous experiences that my brain reacts to most food as potentially dangerous. The caveman portion of my brain, the amygdala, is confused and scared when food passes my lips, goes down my esophagus, and into my bitch-ass stomach. Anxiety sometimes leads to false nausea, causing me to lose my appetite, which is why I'm skinny, which is why I'm cold all the time, which is why I need to gain weight, but that's hard to do with all the anxiety and nausea.

My body couldn't digest fat because my bile duct was blocked, which is why I lost a ton of weight and couldn't maintain the 180-185lbs that works best for me. After 9 months of illness, they figured out what was wrong with me and I got surgetized. I was down to 154 lbs. I had no energy. I was freezing all the time. I wore long johns and a sweatshirt to sleep because I often woke up really cold in the middle of the night. I needed to steadily gain weight by any means necessary.

You might think that since I was fixed, I could have a food party and throw down beef fists and ham slurry.  Chug a few Denver Omelette Blizzards from Dairy Queen. But I couldn't do it. After the surgery, my digestive system was like a brand new puppy, learning the ropes and having accidents. They told me not to eat any fatty foods for a month or two, and that my digestion might not go back to normal for a year or at all. I figured it out for the most part and hit 180lbs after 5 months of slow and steady eating. Lots of carbs. Lots of apple juice. Lots of turkey, hot dog buns, raspberry preserves, cookies, and protein shakes. By protein shakes I don't mean cum. And I'm not disparaging the cum slurpers of the world. Indulge, my sweets.

Now, with the help of a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist, I hope to train my brain not to associate food with nausea. This is my goal. I intend to work hard at my goal, because I can't progress until I learn how to manage panic, stress, and the effect both of them have on my body.

Here's a little secret, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) doesn't work if you're smart. It's not completely ineffective, but it's certainly not effective for people with above average intelligence. It might help a person be a little more aware of their behavior and thought patterns, but I feel the majority of people with anxiety are already acutely self-aware. We're aware of everything, which makes it hard to relax. CBT can suck my balls and asshole simultaneously.

I've been fucked with by my own brain and body, but I refuse to believe that I'm ruined. I've been exposed to the cruel indifference of reality, and it overwhelms me sometimes. So although it'll take some dedicated work to train my brain not to react so violently to the whims of my imagined doom, I'm up to the task because my future depends on it. And "protecting" myself from anxiety by not facing my fears is actually harmful.


In conclusion, I got troubles.

In perpetuity, baby!

Wednesday, August 26, 2020

Harvey Keitel's Sex Story Sanctuary

(This is an excerpt taken from my interview with Harvey Keitel on June 28th, 2020)

"Yeah, I like fucking chicks. So what? I dig the way my dick feels when I cum. I really like it when the broad is on her period and lets me bust inside. I don't need a fucking baby at my age. How old am I anyway? 
(checks his phone) 
81 years old?! Good lord, fuck my ass... 
What was I talking about? Oh yeah, there's nothing like cumming inside a chick.

One time, I think it was the summer of '72, I'm balling this chick, and I'm very excited because she's foxy as hell. We're fucking in the basement of her dad's building in Queens, I remember it being near the zoo. We were fucking in the basement near the boilers and everything.  Heavy duty bangin' for 20 minutes straight, and I'm getting tired, so I decide to hurry up and cum. I'm doing her doggy style, and I speed up. Just start pounding her really hard and fast and she gets to moaning and I'm jackhammering away at her pussy. I feel my whole body go stiff, and my dick gets real stiff, too. I can't move. My balls feel like somebody is squeezing them, and I get that feeling spreading around my unit like I'm on the verge of unleashing a whole mess of jizz. As I blow my load, time slows down. All I can feel is my prick and my balls. Everything else is black and empty. I get this high pitched ringing in my ears. Then I get hit with all this...footage. Visions flashing before my eyes. They feel real, but sorta fuzzy. 

I see my father thrusting a samurai sword into the belly of a horse. He walks alongside the horse, gripping the sword strongly, shredding the animal's insides as he goes. He pulls it out, winks at me, and turns into a walrus. 

I see the same walrus every now and again in my dreams. When I was a teenager, whenever I got angry, I would bring a bag of potatoes to the zoo and whip them at the walrus they got there. I feel bad about it now, but I have to admit I had a good time lobbing Irish Grenades at that fat fuck. 

As I'm looking into his eyes, I feel 8 tons of guilt. The walrus transforms into my first girlfriend, Sandy. Beautiful Brooklyn girl, but big. Built like a Buick. We would listen to Fats Domino records and make out. Then we would ride bikes down to Chinatown and giggle at those slant-eyed bastards. I don't like Chinese people very much, but they sure are fun to laugh at.

Then I'm taken back to reality. I'm still behind the girl in the boiler room. I'm still deep in her gash. I spurt 6 times. Every blast feels like a 4 day weekend. Time passes in inches. The cosmos is centered in my shvantz.

My goo? It's all over the place. I filled her up too fast and it didn't have any other place to go. My head starts feeling throbby, and my eyes go out of focus. The last thing I remember is this broad saying, 'Damnit Harvey, it's everywhere!' 

I black out. Wake up on the concrete floor of the boiler room with a headache. It's nighttime now. Touch my head where the pain is coming from. I'm bleeding, but not too bad. I get up slowly and my back is wet. It's cum. I came so hard that I passed out in a pool of my own nut. The chick is long gone. Left me there. 

It was the greatest day of my life."

Thursday, June 18, 2020

Letter Home From Camp

Dear Mom and Dad,

Things are weird here. The camp director has surrounded himself with squirrels. I believe they are his personal army. I tried to shake his hand and a big brown one flew at my hand and bit me. How does he command their loyalty? Sometimes he balances grapes on his nipple tips and the squirrels launch themselves in the air and snatch the grapes. I want to come home but I know the squirrels won't let me.


The cabins we live in are primitive. My bed is hay. My pillow is dead birds. Spiders crawl in and out of my mouth. To them, I'm just a piece of terrain to cross. I am human! I deserve respect!

The trees here make noises like old people make. Remember the moaning man at grandma's nursing home? They sound like that. Something fell from a branch one day. It was a VHS tape filled with human teeth.


We came across a baby in the woods. He was swaddled in a Judas Priest t-shirt. This dickhead kid named Gerald put it in his backpack. He fed it Doritos and licorice, but I don't think babies like that stuff because it wouldn't stop crying. The camp director heard about the baby and took it away from Gerald. That night, one of the squirrels pissed on Gerald's face while he was sleeping.

My bowels are white and they move in the toilet. I'm listening to a lot of Prince.

They made this one kid dig his own grave and sleep in it for 3 nights because he said the camp director smells like horse cum. He does, though.

One of our counselors drilled a hole in a globe and lubed it up. We fuck it. The hole is near Brazil.

This letter might not find you in time. If I die here, don't look through my stuff. Just don't. I miss you guys so much and can't wait to leave this place. I love you both.



Thursday, May 7, 2015

Losing My Mind: A Tale of Exhaustion

Note: This post was written in January of 2015. Rough times. I'm over it now. Living with my girlfriend in a nice little guesthouse with no shared walls or floors. I'm past the bull noise. Enjoy my retroactive suffering!


I'm exhausted and tapering off my antidepressants. I'm not doing well. I can't get proper sleep at my apartment because I made the mistake of believing that I had in fact rented a structurally sound top floor apartment. I did not. I can hear everything my neighbor does and she can probably hear me. She says she has gotten used to it. I will never get used to feeling her stomp through my floor. I can feel her door slams through my bed. I'm forced to wake up when she wakes up, which is too early for me. I'm seriously considering staying in a hotel for a few days just to get some sleep because I'm losing it.

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I'm going to break my lease here, which is something I've never done. I thought briefly about buying a house and paying a mortgage, but LA is so fucking expensive that the only houses I could afford were next to the freeway and/or shacks in questionable neighborhoods. Any house listed below $600,000 in LA is a piece of shit.

I am growing sick of the city. Fuck, I am done with any city right now. I need quiet. I need space. I need no neighbors and total privacy. I had a guesthouse in LA for 3 years. Should have kept it. It wasn't perfect but I should've stayed there. I was happy there. Actually, the last two months, I was not happy there, what with the combination of the next door neighbor building AN ENTIRE 2 STORY HOUSE ONTO THE BACK OF HIS HOUSE, and a leak in the roof. The construction guys hammering at 7 in the morning is what started driving me crazy. I don't think I've ever gotten back on track. That was 6 months ago. I've had a short fuse and been physically and emotionally exhausted for 6 months and I'm finally spent. It's good to know that my personal limit for bullshit is around 6 months. Yep, good to know.

Downstairs neighbor lady runs a juice company out of her apartment and runs the blender all day. She also has a roommate now, unbeknownst to my landlord. This new roommate is just as inconsiderate about making noise as she is, but then again, this apartment is built like a cardboard tree-fort. It looks nice, but Ted Bundy also looked nice and he murdered people.

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Oof, I sound angry and bitter.

Girlfriend was supposed to move in to this apartment. This was gonna be the place where we lived together. I took on the high cost of this shithole alone, knowing that she'd eventually move in and ease the financial burden. Not anymore. She won't move in here and I don't blame her. Fuck this place, I wish it burned down while I was walking my dog. That would be perfect, actually. No loss of life, just one less shitty structure in LA.

I don't even want to live in LA. Can't stop thinking about my escape really. Actually thinking about suicide on a very casual, surface level. Ooooooooooooooo. Uh oh! No, mustn't say that. Mustn't think about the sweet release of the end. The pull of oblivion. Can't talk about it or they'll lock you up. Don't even mention it or a switch gets flipped and people want to help you. By help you, I mean institutionalize you. And once you've been in a mental facility, the stink will never wash off you. That little nugget of information can be used to assassinate your character for as long as you live. Can't adopt a kid. If you ever get sued or have to go to court, the lawyers will dredge up that shit like an old lobster trap. "Well look what we got here! A suicidal lobster! Explain yourself, suicidal lobster. Go on, tell us non-suiciders what the hell you were thinking. Why would you even consider opting out of this grand world of ours? Speak up, boy!"

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I'm desperate. My 1st priority is sleep. 2nd priority is finding a new place. 3rd priority is building a giant walk-in microwave. Things might be better if I could get some sleep and a new place to live.

I'm very tired. Going to sleep now. Can't wait until I get woken up. Life is great. I wish I was dead. Cemetery folk have it made.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Flash Your High Beams

We here at the gabbin' cabin like to talk about the dogs we've murdered on our way to the championship of roof jumping. From roof to roof we frolic with the truth that our days are numbered but the number of the beast will never be branded upon our necks. Trek through the apartment complex and satisfy the lonely housewife that wears a turban filled with rubies and Judge Dredd stickers pasted to her titties. Get real close, but never get burned.

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How to Buy a Used Fridge


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- The wife of one of my acquaintances thinks she is a radiant goddess of class and erotic features that devastate the eyes and boners of all that look upon her. But in truth, and we're speaking strictly about facts here, she is a gross sack of shit. Her pale, fleshy folds of fat are being used as incubators for nests of bacteria and her breath smells like a chemo fart. Even though she is obese, she gets drunk on 2 drinks, at which point she demands to leave whatever party she's at. Oh, and she sucked a stripper's dick the night before her own wedding. Nearly forgot that detail.

- I don't trust anybody else's idea of clean. You all missed a spot.

- I don't think I'd buy a used car from an obese man. The suspension is probably all fucked up. Who knows what that guy's been eating in the car on the way home from work, hiding his food intake from his very patient wife.

He's going to Wendy's and he's getting a fucking Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger from the drive thru and he's shoving that shit into his fucking mouth in the parking lot. He feels that short rush and then the cannonball of self hatred right afterwards. But then he rationalizes his behavior, telling himself he deserves a treat because he works hard and life is hard. It's true, life is hard, but I'm not buying a car from that pig.

I used to be fat, and now I hate fat people. Actually, I've always hated fat people, including myself. But now I'm thin, baby! So suck a toaster strudel, ya porcine shit slurpers!  

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Sunday, February 23, 2014

Obama and His Secret Cat Food Addiction

Barack Obama eats cat food. It's all he eats, in fact. Sure, he'll pretend to eat a hot dog at the state fair for a photo-op, but as soon as the photos are taken, he spits that wiener out with violent force.

One of his aides brings him a spoonful of Meow Mix and he lets out a low moan of pleasure as the fishy slop hits his tongue. "That's what I'm talking about!" he screams at the sky and then rips his shirt off, revealing a large tattoo on his chest of Garfield getting butt-fucked by Tigger.

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His tongue extends to a superhuman length and he starts to lick where Tigger's cock meets Garfield's asshole. "Oh yeah, you like that, dontcha boys? That gets you all riled up, huh? Well, I'm riled up, too!" Brown liquid streams down his pant legs and into his socks. Diarrhea.

"I'm the luckiest motherfucker on this earth!" Obama declares, as he rips his pants off and sprays frothy diarrhea from his ass while spinning, creating a mighty fecal sprinkler.    

And then a old skeletal Japanese man in a shopping cart rolls up, using a hockey stick to propel himself. He points the stick accusingly at Obama, "Mr. President, why you squirt shit, sir?"

Obama shits out a shotgun and blows the old Japanese man's head off. The shitting stops to a trickle. "Bring me more cat food." he bellows.

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