Month: August 2011

No context.

Back when I lived with my family, I took care of outdoor stuff like painting, yard work, and washing the cars. I hated it for a while, but looking back I’m glad to have had more physically demanding chores.

Girls who get aroused by rigid sex schedules.

I don’t know about seeking peace as much as I see no angle in turmoil. If there is turmoil or it is a means to an end, then everything possible must be done to resolve it.

Iniquity. (cup of)

I want complete control.

A woman.
A hand axe.
Rope.

Afraid of flawed reality because fantasy is safe.

If there’s a problem I confront and deal with it. I also find myself stepping in to make decisions on behalf of others because they’re too indecisive or slow for my pace. I make the call, state the case, everyone agrees to it, move on. If someone disagrees they’re free to present an alternative.

I don’t bother if I don’t care how it turns out.

Helpless and passive. This is intolerable behavior. I require productive distraction.

“Hurt” and some rational thinking works well enough for me. But then I write fiction so I’m sure it all spills out in that medium eventually.

I impress girls with my intimate knowledge of the pluot.

Barefoot.

The giggles are morose. Your face is crimson lucky. Come here and cry for me.

Nail on the head. People are entitled to get off as they see fit. If they find a partner with whom they can engage in such pleasurable activities consensually (even when force is involved), they shouldn’t be made to feel like shit for it.

No context.

Back when I lived with my family, I took care of outdoor stuff like painting, yard work, and washing the cars. I hated it for a while, but looking back I’m glad to have had more physically demanding chores.

Girls who get aroused by rigid sex schedules.

I don’t know about seeking peace as much as I see no angle in turmoil. If there is turmoil or it is a means to an end, then everything possible must be done to resolve it.

Iniquity. (cup of)

I want complete control.

A woman.
A hand axe.
Rope.

Afraid of flawed reality because fantasy is safe.

If there’s a problem I confront and deal with it. I also find myself stepping in to make decisions on behalf of others because they’re too indecisive or slow for my pace. I make the call, state the case, everyone agrees to it, move on. If someone disagrees they’re free to present an alternative.

I don’t bother if I don’t care how it turns out.

Helpless and passive. This is intolerable behavior. I require productive distraction.

“Hurt” and some rational thinking works well enough for me. But then I write fiction so I’m sure it all spills out in that medium eventually.

I impress girls with my intimate knowledge of the pluot.

Barefoot.

The giggles are morose. Your face is crimson lucky. Come here and cry for me.

Nail on the head. People are entitled to get off as they see fit. If they find a partner with whom they can engage in such pleasurable activities consensually (even when force is involved), they shouldn’t be made to feel like shit for it.

Italy

“What’s in Italy?”

“Wine, bread, cheese, and Italian women.”

“We have that shit here.”

“It’s not the same. The bread, wine, cheese, and women I find here won’t kill me quickly.”

“Are you being serious?”

“So serious I want to die.”

Italy

“What’s in Italy?”

“Wine, bread, cheese, and Italian women.”

“We have that shit here.”

“It’s not the same. The bread, wine, cheese, and women I find here won’t kill me quickly.”

“Are you being serious?”

“So serious I want to die.”

Glen

It’s this. This, fucking ivory chopsticks. Here. Take them. Alright, yes, now hold one in each hand. Hold them and let’s think about this, alright? Let’s think about this because, hey, this isn’t going to be the worst moment in your life. I mean, there’s going to be some really terrible shit. Christ, I don’t want any of it for you. Put down one chopstick. There, on the table. Don’t waste time. It’s this moment here when—stop fucking moving—when we realize the hazard of being in the dark. You can lean against the wall. Do you remember Kunta Kinte? Can you live without a foot? I don’t know, don’t ask. Put that other chopstick in your hair and let’s us take a walk. I don’t feel like it. No, just leave my shoes there and come on. The other day, in line at the gas station, I saw an old buddy of mine. Glen, you won’t remember him. You were drunk that last time. I knew him from way back, you know? He whipped his dick out once when we were walking home from school. He did it to show some girls. Twelve, probably. Couldn’t have been anything more than baby dick. He was buying Zig-Zags. Those real big ones. He said he divorced already. Fucking kids. No one knows. You’re shivering but give me a minute here on the curb before we go on. It’s real dark, isn’t it? Now give me that chopstick. Now, see this carving? I don’t know what it means. But, think about this: someone fucking did it. Someone carved this net-looking thing into the chopstick. That’s alright. Here, just take this and throw it out there as hard as you can. Do it. Wait, wait. Don’t throw like you’re aiming. Just pull your arm back, real far. Alright, then throw it like you’re not going to do it anymore. Yeah, like that. I know it feels fucking great. That’s the oxygen in your blood. It’s the muscles you use to hold onto me. Let’s go back now and remember there’s another one. It’s right there where you left it.

Glen

It’s this. This, fucking ivory chopsticks. Here. Take them. Alright, yes, now hold one in each hand. Hold them and let’s think about this, alright? Let’s think about this because, hey, this isn’t going to be the worst moment in your life. I mean, there’s going to be some really terrible shit. Christ, I don’t want any of it for you. Put down one chopstick. There, on the table. Don’t waste time. It’s this moment here when—stop fucking moving—when we realize the hazard of being in the dark. You can lean against the wall. Do you remember Kunta Kinte? Can you live without a foot? I don’t know, don’t ask. Put that other chopstick in your hair and let’s us take a walk. I don’t feel like it. No, just leave my shoes there and come on. The other day, in line at the gas station, I saw an old buddy of mine. Glen, you won’t remember him. You were drunk that last time. I knew him from way back, you know? He whipped his dick out once when we were walking home from school. He did it to show some girls. Twelve, probably. Couldn’t have been anything more than baby dick. He was buying Zig-Zags. Those real big ones. He said he divorced already. Fucking kids. No one knows. You’re shivering but give me a minute here on the curb before we go on. It’s real dark, isn’t it? Now give me that chopstick. Now, see this carving? I don’t know what it means. But, think about this: someone fucking did it. Someone carved this net-looking thing into the chopstick. That’s alright. Here, just take this and throw it out there as hard as you can. Do it. Wait, wait. Don’t throw like you’re aiming. Just pull your arm back, real far. Alright, then throw it like you’re not going to do it anymore. Yeah, like that. I know it feels fucking great. That’s the oxygen in your blood. It’s the muscles you use to hold onto me. Let’s go back now and remember there’s another one. It’s right there where you left it.

motorcycles

“Why do you want a motorcycle?”

“I want to live fast and die young.”

“Geez. Mellow out there, pal.”

“Let’s both get motorcycles. We’ll race into the Pacific. I’ll win.”

“Shit. I want to have children and a life.”

“You poor son of a bitch.”

motorcycles

“Why do you want a motorcycle?”

“I want to live fast and die young.”

“Geez. Mellow out there, pal.”

“Let’s both get motorcycles. We’ll race into the Pacific. I’ll win.”

“Shit. I want to have children and a life.”

“You poor son of a bitch.”

Real life.

I like attractive girls as much as anyone who likes attractive girls, but I cannot stand discussing them like they’re an event in one’s life. Case in point:

“What’d you do this weekend? I hit a few new bars. There were lots of hot girls. One blonde in particular…”

Hot girls being the point of his question, you see. He did hot girls (or tried, men lie about these things). And he’s still talking. I can hear the noise. I’ve stopped listening.

We’re all assholes in some form or another.

Real life.

I like attractive girls as much as anyone who likes attractive girls, but I cannot stand discussing them like they’re an event in one’s life. Case in point:

“What’d you do this weekend? I hit a few new bars. There were lots of hot girls. One blonde in particular…”

Hot girls being the point of his question, you see. He did hot girls (or tried, men lie about these things). And he’s still talking. I can hear the noise. I’ve stopped listening.

We’re all assholes in some form or another.