Girl: No. Not particularly. I'm just picturing this promotional event the Kansas City Monarchs put on in the summer of '32 in which they had a box turtle play third base.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Guy: Ahhhh!!! That was amazing! It's funny. Three days ago we didn't know each other. Now your face is covered in my cum. Sex is weird. I feel so comfortable with you. Why are you smiling so much? Was that really funny what I said about the three days thing?
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Remember when you were a 10 year old with rage issues who was obsessed with saying "pussy" to your shyfat best friend but had a glaring misconception of the precise angular displacement of the actual human pussy. It was your first season of kid pitch. And you had a coach who was WAY younger than your dad but like also older than your sister at Hampshire. A dude who was this vibrant mentoring animal with a dirtyblonde EMT wife he fucked and loved and a Ford Explorer EDDIE BAUER edition in whose cargo area you once spied a case of light domestic beer bearing the promise of a riveting new adult universe entirely alternate to the gentle, teetotaling, incubatory one occupied by your parents. This man with his magical access to all that was fun, deviant, scary, human. But you... still miserably a kid. With spelling tests. And no pubes. You weren't even allowed to throw a curve yet lest you tweak your wee unripe elbow. You were a fucking mess.
So here's the exciting thing... It's been sixteen years. And guess what? You can totally fucking hang out with that guy! Drink a BEER with him! DRIVE to his apartment in YOUR CAR and do ILLEGAL DRUGS together or talk about a girl you both know in a way that reveals YOU UNDERSTAND THE PRECISE PLACEMENT OF VAGINAS ON BODIES. Maybe you'll become sensitive friends who care about each other, and then one night, in his backyard, if you're lucky, he'll fucking tell you about his adult human woman wife who has a real job's MISCARRIAGE. From years ago. Crucial event in homie's life. And he's telling you all about it! She freaked after it happened! Got depressed! Making him feel alienated and undesired. So he kind of wasn't there for her when she needed him most. He ended up cheating on her with a girl who now, on an unrelated note, has breast cancer! And retardedly he admitted it all to his wife. Prompting her to reveal an affair she had had with a sociopathic hugecocked realtor. But they're STILL TOGETHER. Even though they aren't 100% happy! Not even close. They'll never be whole again. And you now know all of this! And are stoned on real pot not oregano to boot! Oh my God! The access! The access to everything! The fucking heartbreaking access!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
This is a normal person's reaction to the picture: Tasty looking pies! Cute girl. Good cook. Little boobage. Sweet!
This is my reaction: Oh fuck, I can sense this is about to tap into my guilt over failing to develop as a cook. I had SOME interest in cooking when I was 18, more than your average 18 year old, okay, but I've let my skills atrophy in the intervening years, and now I'm at the bottom of my class cooking-wise! You know what, fuck this. Those pies don't even look good! I bet they taste bad. Or the recipe is shit. Handed down from some fat closeted-Lesbian midwestern relative who was a bad cook herself. There are probably some textural failures at play beneath the crust. Even if the pies taste alright, they're boring! A straight apple pie?! Who makes a straight apple pie these days? Boring people, that's who. And you know what else, her kitchen isn't very nice. She's probably poor! So I make more money than her AND appreciate more experimental desserts! And her hair looks thin! I hate her and her shit pies! I hate her pies! I hate her pies!
Monday, April 12, 2010
Oh my God, you're holding me again. After all these years. I like your grip. Yeah, just take me hard and use me to write down an address on the back of a meaningless business card or a fucking Chipotle napkin. Yes. Dominate me. Ruin me. Then if you want, we could go to Big Sur for the weekend. Reenact those times after school when you'd hold me for hours and sketch detailed if unrecognizable tableaux of the Clinton/Bush/Perot debates by the dimming light of day. So precocious then. Still remember the first time you swooped me up and forced me to make those three little graphite squiggles representing both the wrinkles on George H.W. Bush's forehead and, more abstractly, your inchoate sense of time itself.
Wait? You're putting me back in the drawer? Stop it. What are you thinking? I'm too dull?! Fucking sharpen me, you lazy pussy. You didn't even want me in the first place? You're just moving me aside to grab that pill bottle full of weed? I can't believe this! I never even liked you. There. I said it. I wish I was still in Brandon Gordon's Trapper Keeper and you'd never asked to borrow me in the first place! He's a very successful realtor now, Brandon is. You hear that?! Owns a condo in Laguna. Huge cock. Fuck you!!!!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
when parents decide to host family friend's 50th birthday party in a room with newly redone hardwood floors.
NMNYO: Can we at least lay down a blue tarp?! Mom, this is insane. The floors are going to get scuffed!!!!
During party, as a couple dozen middle aged people joyfully dance and celebrate:
Later on, pretending to be nice to the birthday girl...
NMNYO: Happy birthday! (inwardly: you thoughtless fucking floor scratcher!!! You've taken advantage of my parents and our family room!)
Afterward, assessing the damage...
NMNYO: Look at those scratches, dad. I warned you!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
I have an affinity for the institution. Have never come close to stalking anyone myself. Don't quite have the psychological makeup for it. But obsession, the past, and dysfunction are three of my favorite things to think about, and the idea that there are people out there taking bold, insane action in the name of all three brings me great joy. I think that if I were a little less dead inside, prideful, and apathetic, I'd be a great stalker.
Just imagine the mental freedom. It's like, I can worry about my family, career, sex-life, friends, money, health, twenty-six years of accumulated shortcomings, insecurities, and pathologies... or... I can focus the entirety of my mental energy on that white girl I barely know whose vagina I jizzed in once back before anyone knew who Simon Monjack was.
Daddy Long Legs: I have this persistent delusion, almost every morning, that a naked, wet, pale, sensitive 20-something animal is trying to push me down a big dark hole using a large overhead metallic device that shoots down multiple jets of scalding, pressurized water.
Therapist: While you acknowledge the absurdity of this fear from an intellectual perspective, I can imagine that, emotionally, it's still rather devastating.
Daddy Long Legs: Yes. Totally fucking devastating. I lost a leg this morning. Have like third degree burns all over. I feel like shit... emotionally.
Therapist: I also think that your brief, though charged, relationship with that woman which ended only a couple weeks ago and your mother's lingering illness may be a factor in these strange hot water fantasies you've been having... and on that note, we are out of time.
Daddy Long Legs: Here's a check for $300. Thanks for your help. See you next week.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
The elegantly-designed cockpit and its state of the art instrumentation put him in such a good headspace that he's able to cajole the sweet, insecure woman he's squiring into fellating him in the car as opposed to his apartment.
Horse 1: I was the fastest 3 year old in the world just a year ago. Quit at my peak Barry Sanders style. Getting into the stud fee game now. Figure why not embrace the whole fuck young, top shelf horse pussy all day long until I die trajectory, right? Let you guys know how that goes.
Horse 2: I'm going to be the beloved, nearly fetishized object of a dementedly entitled 10 year old JAP whose dad, Ken Silverman, owns the largest liquor distributor in the state of Nevada. I am going to be pampered! And apparently Ken's youngest daughter is jonesing for a horse too. Potential BFF sitch. Plus, tons of well educated, wealthy male horses living on the adjacent properties. Could totes find a soul mate here.
Horse 3: I despise horses. I dislike horse culture. The dated western mythology, the worship of aesthetics above all else, the fucking forced outdoorsiness. I hate ranches, stables, sawdust, dirt, fields, flowers, galloping. And I hate how shamelessly positive and self-promoting horses are. You're beautiful, you're fast, you're wild, yeah... I get it. I wish this trailer would turn the fuck around and take me to the Santa Monica Farmer's Market on Main Street. Sometimes they have miniature ponies walking around in a circle there. Hipsterdads put their toddlers on top of them. The ponies walk around for a couple hours. That shit is mindless and easy in the best way. I figure I'm pretty undersized. I could pass for a pony. It's a good life. Grub on some blue corn tamales during a break. Buy a little fresh local produce at a discount. Meet some off-beat creative free spirit type chilling in the grass with her friends. Grow a beard. Buy a starter home. Host barbecues and invite other pretty good looking, intelligent non mainstreamers into your backyard where you grow your own kale. Have a baby. Buy expensive organic baby toys that your cool friends confirm are extremely in and thoughtful. Be a little less obsessive and helicoptery than your own parents. Yeah. There is a simple dignity to that. It isn't unique, but it's endurable. Might even thrive at it.
Horse 1: Ahh, shit, that feels good.
Horse 3: What?
Horse 1: Horse 2 is blowing me right now.
Horse 3: Oh. Sweet.