Oscar Wilde's Love Child

The Shart Limbo- You Gambled and Lost.

2012-01-23T01:00:00.004-05:00

Come, take my hand and let me show you a world you've probably never seen before. Or maybe you just passed through and glanced at it from the window then decided there were better places for a Bed and Breakfast.

I live in a space-time place that I have deemed the Shart Limbo. It's a combination of the doldrums, limbo, and an existential shart that dumped you right smack dab in the middle of it with no way out, no reception and no wifi. But there is a Starbucks. And outside of that Starbucks is a homeless woman with one solid fake tooth begging you for money. And you feel like a dick walking in to buy your red eye while the change makes an effort to jingle in your pocket.

For those of you unaware of the technical definition of a shart, let me be the first to welcome you to this choice piece of knowledge. A shart is a fart with unintended consequences. That is to say that while you were crop dusting, you shit your pants. No one is immune to the shart; some just have the good fortune to be wearing darker pants. A shart is also known as the gambled and lost fart. You had your suspicions but you decided to be a sneaky asshole anyway- now your covering your ass and trying not to run too fast to the nearest bathroom.

It's not bad enough to be rock bottom. I WISH it was at rock bottom. Jesus on Christ, I'd be having a ton of fun if I finally hit rock bottom. The great thing about hitting rock bottom is that you don't even realize that you're there- but everybody else does. And that at least gives you a sense of security, even if you're too broke to buy toothpaste after you suck a proper dick for your cough syrup fix. Rock Bottom is somewhere- Shart Limbo isn't even good enough to be bad enough to be that. It's several steps up but a million steps away from success.

There are two kinds- Shart Limbo that prevents you from being a successful failure and the Shart Limbo where your success is cognitively dissonant to your dead dreams. That means that while you've always dreamed of being a respected musician/writer/painter/graphic designer/model/illustrator/ect/, you're at a desk job working for a company you don't quite understand but making enough of a living to go out and get drunk and talk about your latest "work". Eventually you settle with your lifestyle, because your living is good enough and good enough is as high as the bar is willing to let you go. And then you will become an art and culture critic.

The other Shart Limbo is where you still have enough willpower to stop yourself from vomiting all over your decency, but your nausea is still overwhelming enough to make you a piece of shit. It's when you have all the assets for success but you don't have any dreams. Or if you do, you realize that your dreams are fucking stupid. Or you dream the wrong dreams that don't lead to anywhere ( e.g: my last post). But you've still got a place to live and you kind of have a job but you really just wake up so you can go do what you have to do for people to consider you a real person so that you can get fucked up and forget about the fact that you have absolutely no ambition or meaning in life.

I took a gamble. I lost. I gained a muffin top, I burned bridges TWICE, I pissed all my time away on waiting for something to happen and nothing ever did because I still don't know what to do to make things go get success. I should have been networking. But I was eating ice cream and crying, yelling at the characters on the screen. Suicide is too much work and too much mess. You can't even do it right in Shart Limbo- you'll end up embarrassed and cold in your hospital gown.

I ended up here because I concentrated all my efforts on gaining the affections of a dick, even though dicks don't have feelings. They don't even have a proper mouth to kiss you with. I got real fucked up over it, pined till I went insane, moved away, and now here I am. Piss shakingly scared of the real world and utterly incompetent. Still a creep. Still a pervert. Damaged goods. Like a bruised apple that hangs out in the corner of your busted shopping cart.

But I've got a BA- which affluent shit wants to throw me a fucking bone for a bone and skyrocket me into club 27 fame?

Not Your Momma's Rape Van

2012-01-22T21:11:00.000-05:00

A little big part of me wants to be adopted by a gang of maternal lesbians comprised of an even number of butches and fems with the lead going by Pistol Clit (Because of the hormones. Clit Dick to pistol whip with).

I'd like to be walking down a deserted street, admiring the extent of the soapbox shit my mouth spits, inadequate and hobo tacky, wearing a man's jacket who I have never slept with. I look up at the black iron railings of southern buildings and picture celebrity "O" faces in the clouds.

Then an unmarked van with an anime porn-star on the side of it would screech to a halt and a big burly arm would slam the door open and yank me inside by the hood of my jacket. Pistol Clit has the kind of handshake you don't fuck around with. Sugar-Tits can't leave the van without lipstick. Scissor Shaker keeps her hand on your seat when you call fives. Bitch Cassidy hides sugar-free candy in her dreads. Albino Allie terrifies children but has a blank prescription pad. Taco Tickler makes bitchin macrame tampons.

The girls and I would have to work out our differences at first. Work out a system to make sure everybody kept their vegan meats free of beef and my beef free of vegan meat. They'd reprimand the tendency to put dicks on a pedestal and get me fitted for the proper strap-on. I'd resist- but only to keep it interesting for the ladies.

I could be the token straight girl who ends up sleeping with everybody but ends up bringing everybody together, using sticky fingers to hold hands.

We'd go traveling cross country to find convicted rapists who twerked the judicial system like the pussies they bruised. We'd tie them up at one of our designated warehouses. Our porn stash would be enough to get any suspicious warehouse proprietor to look the other way. Or we'd just rape him like the rapists. He won't say nothing to nobody because the cops would never believe him anyway.

Each one of us would take a turn, wearing our monogramed plastic dicks and auto-tuning the cries of guttural fear that those deviants' sphincters wish they had enough space to make. We'd record that shit and leave it on the doorstep a dubstep DJ who lives in his mom's basement so he could get famous. Spontaneous combustion of every wookie pussy lip within a ten mile radius. (You're welcome future dubstep guy. I'll see you at Ultra. )

We'd find the victims, leave them a note and a gift basket and keep going till we violate every human violation we have fortune to find.

And you know what, before you get all pissy, you have to stop being so hetero-normative about what defines Charity. Altruism meets justice meets DJ promotion meets dildos.

That's pretty fucking charitable.

Movie Magic

2012-01-16T01:28:00.000-05:00

The picket fence is always white

and the paint never chips.

Frost never bites the plastic garden,

and supper is always ready at 7.

Eyes like dinner plates watering

with wishes for roses on the doorstep.

Glued to the screen

Technicolor perfection

Made a cardboard house a home

while the rain melts the rafters.

To Catch a Teen Mom

2012-01-16T00:38:00.000-05:00

My bloated ass is ornery tonight.

I'm navigating the Shart Limbo poorly ( took a gamble and lost- I'll explain the concept of the Shart Limbo in further detail in a different post) and I've discovered something terrible and disgusting that has made my previous cynicism look like a marshmallow kitten.

So all this awful has got me sitting watching Dateline and musing on how well Chris Hansen can wear a brown turtle neck while reading off transcripts about cat fucking and smirnoff ice enemas, when it dawned on me that I have a new opportunity to make tens of millions of dollars.

These guys. These predators that get caught, they're pretty awful people. But they're people folks; and besides, they only take the bait because the faux 13 year old is egging them on with their darling ignorance of cock sucking along with their sumptuous curiosity of hairy tongues dora the exploring their clitginas. If you're some foreign ass 25 year old virgin, this is the very best that America has to offer.

Anyway, once these guys get out of jail, they probably can't find a date. So they're going to be back online, soliciting tweens with awkward pictures of their naked bodies. It's a vicious cycle that's only going to result in blue balls- no tween is actually going to tongue juggle a grundle. Not unless you look like a gay vampire.

So I want to set up a dating sight for all the former predators. The rabbis, the teachers, the puffy looking bald men, the pakistani technicians, the naked chef, every single last perverted fuck deserves love. Or a zipless fuck. Same thing.

I'll set them up on dates with my state of the art logarithm, which will pair them with the right MTV teen mom. The pregnant ones too. Because sexy starts at conception.

That way, at least the girls they're trying to fuck are mature enough to pop out a baby. And then those girls will find that blackmail will start to pay the bills better than any degree from Devry (Coppin State for those little genius sluts). So they can be free to give old fashions behind Denny's to save up for their pill habits.

It takes care of every problem. Tweens are free to roam the internet and explore their slutuality without getting molested in real time, while those teen moms get the attention and financial security from old pedophiles.

Film the matches in black and white, mute the sound, add some subtitles and slap on an avant-garde jazz soundtrack and it's motherfucking gold. It'll skyrocket me out of Shart Limbo straight into This Bitch town.

Always Be Closing.

(But keep your whore legs open for mama.)

The Horror

2012-01-15T22:47:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you stumble upon something you wish didn't exist. Your mouth becomes a desert while your heart stops to reassure itself and your mind makes room for the thing you've seen.

A dream? Yes. It must be.

The bile that swells like a yellow tide burns the pink of your stomach that fell to the floor. This isn't even a nightmare.

Reality relishes the pleasure of suffocating your fantasy.

Sight has no regard for the comfort of denial.

Respectable Men

2012-01-15T22:13:00.000-05:00

A degenerate shit

will only surprise you

with the best of themselves.

Beneath deplorable faces,

wounded virtue sleeps restlessly.

But a respectable man

is worth the rot of his

malignant soul,

perpetually vested by

the silk at his breast.

They believe in

the undisputed entitlement

of their indiscretion,

authorized salacious

by their bloated salaries.

Respectable men

are the filthiest fucks.

The Accident

2012-01-12T10:24:00.000-05:00

He didn't know exactly at what point in the night it happened. He just woke up wet. Cold piss all over the sheets. He had put off washing them for weeks, dusting the crumbs off his pillow when he could remember that he had eaten something stale. He couldn't put it off any longer. Bruce had pissed the bed.

He didn't have any quarters. Looking past the crack in the bathroom door, the bathtub seemed like the only sensible solution to remedy his unintended release without risking the curiosity of strangers at the Laundromat.

Last time he got sick, he didn't make it to the toilet. The tub was his porcelain nurse, and he had left his stomach to dry in the drain that was already clogged with his newly receding hairline. He didn't even bother to turn on the water. He just crawled back to bed and forgot about it. He told himself he would take care of it in the morning. When morning dawned on him, he went to the kitchen and washed his face in the sink, dripping soap on a tower of ancient dirty dishes. He had meant to clean the tub, but he was managing fine without it.

His eyes called over to his hands for further motivation to break free from the film of crust that habitually formed overnight. As he began to rub his palms against his swollen eyelids, he felt his hands were wet. It was probably sweat. He drew his fingers to his nostrils and tentatively inhaled. Old piss. He wiped them slowly on the dry side of the bed, trying to blink away the sting of sunlight.

Bruce swung his legs across the frame and watched his feet touch the floor. His head hung heavy while it tested his neck. If he forced alertness on his mind too soon, his body would punish him with violent dry heaves of inconsolable nausea. He stared at the wood beneath his toes. He found faces in the grain. He pushed the pills on the floor with his big toe to mark the eyes so he wouldn't forget. Slowly, he lifted his head and tilted his eyes towards the cold light escaping between the blinds. His scattered prescriptions bottles balanced on the curves of broken glass. A degenerate circus act for him to watch.

A quick warm whip of shame began to belt his gut. A grown man covered in piss in early afternoon. Mortification should have tenaciously blackened his morale. His confidence should have beeen livid with such an inconceivably childish blow. But he was used to the smell, and besides, he thought, accidents happen. I'm not the only man alive who pissed himself. Hemingway probably pissed himself at some point in his life.

He was alone. Marcia had left two nights ago. Some of her hair had gathered and tangled into dusty knots underneath the nightstand. He left it there. He hadn't ask her what was wrong. She would have told him if it wasn't serious. She didn't want to explain it. He knew she had a habit of keeping the worst of things unsaid. She didn't want the truth spoken. Life would be beyond denial when words framed her demons.

Marcia would have laughed. She would have gotten him a glass of water. She would have punched his shoulder. She would have washed his sheets and told anybody who had anything to say about it to fuck right off. That's what she said when they first met. She had seen him looking at her like a lost calf so she walked up to him and told him to fuck right off. She was smiling as she said it. A few months later, she had fucked right off.

Bruce took off his sheets and put them on the floor. He would have to clean the bathtub before he could do anything about it. The mattress was damp. He doused it with cologne. He didn't have any detergent. But he would take care of it later, when the piss had dried.

White Sky

2012-01-11T20:18:00.001-05:00

Every raindrop

breaking on

the sidewalk

brings out the ghost

of you inside of me.

When the sun

quits the city,

your name is

painted underneath

the white sky.

The Bird and The Bee

2012-01-10T18:31:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time,

there was a Bee who got sick

off of Bird shit and lost a wing.

Flying lopsided, the Bee ran into

a Bird who couldn't fly straight

because it got sick off

of some nasty Bee shit.

They fell to the ground,

a little bit dirty and a little bit confused,

found a drink and drank it together,

then realized that the only thing to do

was to sew their fucked up wings together.

They did and they flew.

They became a Beerd.

The first Beerd in history-

The now have a contract

to document their sex lives

on a reality show on E!

Moral: A lame duck always has a story worth televising.

Achy Breaky Heart

2012-01-10T18:22:00.000-05:00

Dreams beneath

eyes shut;

nightmares

when sleep

escaped from

lonesome bones.

Soul derelict

drained of a pus

stained infection

survives with

smiling

vengeance.

8509

2012-01-10T18:08:00.000-05:00

If my heart

were a home,

arson would

have arrested

the quiet nest.

Careless tenants

locked the door,

let the stove burn

to collect their

insurance.

Piss on the walls

Black wood

skeleton frame-

New bricks are

on their way.

SWAG

2012-01-02T13:23:00.000-05:00

I can't control my SWAG- it just does what it do and it do what it does and it is what it do when it do what it does.

My SWAG do right because if my SWAG did wrong it ain't would be do at ALL.

Heads Up Honky -

(Crackassprairiedoglookinmuhfucka)

When I walk around and my SWAG gets turned up to 11, cuz I got that michael jackson pussy-poppin shit when I listen to that deceased muhfucka, it fucks yo baby momma and yo baby in the backseat of a a platinum school bus. Jaws don't just drop; they break like broken-ass ice skates.

Don't be tryna talk to me when I got my SWAG on,

I got it LOUD and your ass is soft-spoken like a bitch.

My SWAG make yo bootyhole pop up open like a popcorn kernel

My SWAG is so bad, it punches your dick in the face.

Now bend on over and let my SWAG rub your grundle with scented oil while I smoke 16 cuban cigars filled with 17 kinds of bud and let my microphone drop right down into your donut smile.

Oh. U MAD?

Talkin bout my SWAG ho- you can't even begin to think to wonder with that ignorant-ass mind

Miracles- The Clowns Don't Lie.

2011-12-23T14:14:00.001-05:00

Let me tell you something.

If you have a whim, humor it.

I'll tell you I'm nearing an unexpected success story, after all this time spent fucking with disaster.

It's like this:

Somebody found the cure for cancer with AIDs. They cancel each other out.

Now the Hospice is going out of business.

It's a fucking miracle- more impressive than any magnet.

So chin up, Heavy Heart, you're going to be just fine.

And if all it goes to Hell, at least we'll both keep warm by brimstone.

Real True Romance

2011-12-23T01:44:00.000-05:00

It's pretty fucking easy to be romantic when you have the lighting set right, the flowers on the bed, the gift-wrapped dildo engraved with both your names, the picnic, the horses, the beach sex where she doesn't mention the sand in her puss and you don't mention that your dick is exfoliated, the french restaurant with the El Salvadorian cooks, the confessions of undying love underneath satin sheets while your other baby is texting you the color of their skanky panties.

Yes it's very easy to be romantic like that.

But that isn't romance at all. That's just Hallmark conditioning love. And that's fine. That's very nice to do once in a while. But that just isn't really romance.

You know, if we end up in a motel 6 together, with a dead guy in the pool, a sleeping puerto-rican gangster on the ottoman, and 10,000 dollars we don't ever remember having before last night, that'll be romance. If we can kiss each other and taste vomit without flinching, THAT is romance. If we can throw up on each other in the shower, THAT is romance. If you hold back my hair while I'm dry heaving in the bathtub and still have the mind to play with a titty, THAT is romance. If I give you a blumpkin.... THAT'S STRAIGHT UP LOVE.

You should still take me out to some place fucking expensive though. Red Lobster style.

Stupid or Sexy... Not STUPID sexy. Stupid.

2011-12-22T02:45:00.000-05:00

Hey.

It's hard to be sexy when you like stupid everything.

I'm going to lay it out for you like this:

When we met, I didn't want to make you laugh

I just wanted to get your dick hard. Funny girls don't get dicks hard. So I didn't want to be too funny.

Because that's what matters. Because I like you like that- but I would never say anything. You get bored, you told me so, that girls come and go by the time the next month rolls on by.

I wanted to thrill you. With ambiguity. With your erection. Shit... the possibility of it popping up is enough to satisfy me. ( But not SASSIFY me )

I sincerely wanted to get your dick hard. Out of love. If it had been lust... I would have just made you sit across from me and Sharon Stoned you. But I didn't want to do that. I wanted to elicit a meaningful erection from you. Not a cheap and dirty hard dick. An attentive hard dick.

Tell me... if you had met me and I had on overalls and walked like I had a sawed-off shotgun in my pant leg ( boot? I wasn't wearing pants.) then started spitting nonsensical rhymes about thighs eyes and pussy sighs while fellatiating a tootsie pop with somebody else's baby on my hip, you probably wouldn't have taken me out again.

But I'm pretty sure you would have laughed.

I've grown. Matured. I've realized that my love of stupid is innate and impossible to ignore. Stupid is funny. Smart stupid is even better. But stupid is always easier.

I'm sorry BooBoo, but I want to make you laugh AND give you meaningful erections.

But I can't give you anything hip or cool or culturally significant. I don't know what I should be wearing since what I'm wearing now is SO two years ago. I don't have a scene and nobody knows me.

All I've got is pussy, giggles, and casseroles.

But so much love. For you. And your glorious, kind, and undoubtedly beautiful penis. So much love.

Now take it before I throw it in the goddamn garbage and some hobo finds it and claims me as his own.

What Saran Said

2011-12-21T17:14:00.000-05:00

I was sitting out back the other night, nursing a poor man's drink, when my neighbor stepped outside to have a cigarette. She sat down next to me and we had a talk.

Saran is not somebody that I would have met if it hadn't been for the virtue of situational circumstance. I'm sure she would say the same thing. She is a sorority girl and I am hardly a lady. She is the peachiest of any peach I've ever had the pleasure of talking to. I am a lecherous old homosexual man in a 22 year old girl body.

We were talking and we started glossing over our love lives, as girls are prone to do in the midnight hour. Our romantic exploits could not possibly have been more different. But we came to the same conclusion three cigarettes later.

Both of us believe in love. I felt pretty stupid about it. She felt pretty stupid about it. But then we brought it up. And it was such a relief to know that somebody else is on your team when the modern world makes you feel like an asshole for believing such a thing. It's good to have a friend when you're fighting against the logic of the masses.

So the next time you have a chance to chit chat with a sorority girl... Do it. You can't imagine how good it feels to have a Phi Mu back your shit up, whatever your shit may be.

Anchor

2011-12-21T16:54:00.000-05:00

anchored in

the ocean of

your eyes

my ship

will brave

the storm

victorious.

Faraway

strains the

salt-stained

chains

If they break,

I will drown,

driftwood defeated

by a tempest.

Domestic Brought Back

2011-12-17T21:50:00.002-05:00

This series of pictures were some of my favorites and in a fit of frustration and practicality, I deleted them, along with a whole bunch of other good ones. I decided to bring them back because this is exactly how I would like you to remember me. Half-naked in the kitchen begging to make you a sandwich.

How about a lobster roll?

Slightly Effeminate Men versus Your "Machoman Randy Savage" Men

2011-12-08T20:20:00.000-05:00

It's time to appreciate slightly effeminate men, for there are many of them and some of them do deserve celebration.

It is also time to put down "Machoman Randy Savage" Men. Because those guys are the worst and they don't know how to tickle the southern ivories worth a tit's shit.

There is nothing that I like more than a not-so-macho guy who can come to into my room and beat up my womb.

And not a 90 pound POW either. That's just ridiculous. You're just letting those guys hold you down- if you struggle, he'll fall off the bed and break all his bones.

A SEM can't be a little bitch. Just... more attentive to his appearance, which is lithe in nature. He should have played some kind of sport as some point in time. Then decided to get a little more pussy with tighter jeans, slicker shoes, and longer hair.

If you haven't tried getting pounded by a SEM, I recommend it. Those artistic types tend to get a lot of pussy, and while not all of them are really apt to stroke the cat, the ones who are can become your Caravaggio and paint you wet with one good bad touch.

The macho men... well, I have to be honest with you folks, I've never actually had the pleasure of crying in the dark underneath of a muscle-milk experiment gone wrong.

But I imagine that my rule for SEM would be the exact opposite for MRS men. MRS men probably become little sniveling bitches in the coitus mode. Their sighs jump a few octaves once you touch their howdy-doody dick. They ask you if you're okay till you're definitely not okay.

If they keep the MRS persona though, they're just going to copy whatever they see while they jerk off to porno. You'll get a lot of hectic thrusting without any rhythm, a lot of Kool-Aid guy "OH YEAHS", some gorilla-shit groaning and a teeny peeny that squirts sick slow spunk all over your disappointed face.

MIND YOU: an MRS guy can also dress like a SEM. Don't be fooled- this is an MRS guy who got how to get pussy. SEM might also be jacked and wearing sweatpants- but this is FAR less common.

Prove me wrong. Give me one night with an MRS guy who has the necessary emotional intelligence to fuck a girl right and I will stop touching myself in record stores and coffee shops.

Prostitots

2011-12-08T18:14:00.001-05:00

Man I am CONCERNED.

Ladies, you need listen up.

It's hard to be a lady; you got hooka-hos and other bitches you gotta constantly be on your toes for. You got every kind of style in every kind of magazine telling you that you don't look good enough and you'll never get good enough to keep a man from running around town with a better lookin hooka-ho.

But it's gotten worse Ladies, it's gotten bad.

Not only did we have the Better Lookin Bitches to mind, now we have Prostitots to watch out for. Ain't can't be competing with Prostitots! Look at this shit:

THIS SHIT

Unbelievable. Even I'm getting a little bit aroused looking at this little girl. Bitch wants it and doesn't even know what it is. She's 10 fucking years old. How the fuck-I can't...I feel like a wrinkled pair of spanx.

Shit is CRAZY ladies! You have toddlers in lucite and teenagers with plastic titty meat making your 20-something look like an aesthetic hospice. Little girls are getting sexy quick and Men can't resist the allure of a 9 year old whore playing with a barbie doll at the foot of the bed.

What can we do?

At the rate this girls are going, they'll be sucking dick like a meth-lab stripper by the time they hit puberty.

Can't compete- hopefully, they're too young to know about condoms, so they'll end up pregnant with herpes.

How To Make Slavery O.K.

2011-12-05T19:52:00.000-05:00

Woah there.

Lets not ruffle our feathers.

Hear me out.

I don't think that we should enslave a bunch of people based or sex, religion, or race or anything like that. That's the worst kind of malignant nonsense there is.

But I think that it should be perfectly legal to ride a horse bareback through Hollywood and burlap sack whatever reality TV star or general fame whore you see walking around.

The thing is, they have to contribute negatively to society in order to be eligible for slavery. They have to be making millions off of their mercilessly shallow existence for absolutely no reason. The things they produce must actually subtract from the value of our culture. I won't name names because it fuels the fire, but I'm sure you can think up of one or two famous asses.

So what would happen is that you'd have to haul in your capture to a local Fame Whore office of some sort, where they would be evaluated. I know some of you are just gonna hop on a horse and snatch an actor or musician you want to fuck.

No. I'm talking labor. That's just rape, what you're thinking about. I'm not condoning rape. Not yet.

So okay, you get this meaningless celebrity and it's approved by the Fame Whore offices.

Once that happens, all their rights as human beings are revoked. Now if, by some chance, they manage to produce something worthwhile during their slavery, that product gets evaluated by the Fame Whore office and they are either denied or granted freedom.

In terms of escape... well... if they can make it back to Hollywood and find an agent, you lose all property rights. But if you catch them...well... you can go take them to The Gathering as punishment. Leave them there and exchange them for a juggalo.

I think that this rooting of fame whores will surely allow show business to once again become a business run by integrity and cultural altruism.

Eloquence? Mufuckin rite.

2011-12-05T19:26:00.000-05:00

Nyohmygad-

Nuh-uh.

Get out of my head and into your car and drive away.

Momma thinks I'm a ho cuz of you ( cuz of me too but cuz of you mostly ). Why don't you pay me next time? Least then I can take myself out to dinner.

Even though I let you up in my jingle-jangle poppin-fresh sugar walls without making you do shit for me. MY BAD- SORRY.

Power trip gonna make you slip over your own damn shoelaces. Even if you ain't got none cuz you don't wear shoelaced shoes.

All I want is to find somebody who looks like you, sounds like you, suck a titty like you, and stalks me on the internet too. Why ain't you be up on my shit?

GET UP ON MY SHIT IF YOU GONNA MAKE MY MOMMA THINK IMA HO.

I want a man who says to me, "Bitch, I love you. I want to start fights with Albanians who look in your general direction. Your face makes my dick smile. You write super-good. Lemme have you fix me some pancakes. Talk dirty to me in that Long-Island jew voice you like to do- fuck, thinking about it gets me hard. Let's make a baby and name is Carlisle. Lemme sing at you like an off-key Dean Martin- now get wet slut."

Best get on it QUICK before I find Eunice T. Kawosky. I know he's waitin on me at a rest stop somewhere.

Wordrection.

2011-12-05T18:36:00.000-05:00

I want to give everybody a Wordrection.

I want you to read something I've written

and feel your mind shape-shift into a

massive penis, engorged with

thoughts and pulsing with emotion.

Cup your ball sack brimming with ideas then

watch your mind-cock explode into a messy epiphany.

Filthy-You're absolutely filthy, covered in nouns and adverbs.

Go get yourself a towel and clean that nonsense off your tits.

Need Management

2011-12-04T22:19:00.000-05:00

I had an unrestricted childhood.

I didn't have to go to any club meets or practices or organized hobbies. No 4H or sunday school or soccer practice or chemistry club. Not for this little bear cub-no sir.

I decided to sell clay figurines of people's dogs when I was 8ish. I made friendship bracelets for myself and I made tiny paper cranes out of decorative paper then covered them in clear nail polish and made them into earrings. Everything I did, I did for me. I did for profit. I wanted to buy snow globes. And I did. I bought the fuck out of some snow globes.

That was the last time that I can remember where I had made something of myself.

Well, now I've got nothing. I've got no organizational skills to speak of. I don't even have any more snow globes.

But I can still make those dog statues. Only those dog statues are metaphors now. Sexy sassy hip metaphors.

I need somebody who can manage all of my affairs for me. I need somebody who can see the fact that I am a profitable source, waiting to be syphoned by several different corporate mouths. I am too ridiculous too do this.

Look, the only reason I might say that my creativity and word bonanzas are priceless is because there isn't an asking price. Rich people don't know I exist.

And the ones who do are painfully shy. Probably.

OR ELSE GET AT ME. Or does my ART offend you?! Frivolous philistine-back to your cave.

I need a person to who knows everybody who wants me to know these same people. Who wants to make them buy all the non-products I have to offer so that a we can swim in a pool of crude oil together.

I would sleep with this person. Preferably, they would be male. But I will also make love to a woman with strong arms. There's no better way to establish an outstanding business partnership than through DADT fucking. This has been true since the dawn of P.R.

But look- if you're great with business, you like my writings, you like my titty-meat ( R.I.P. PATRICE), you aren't rucking fetarded or anything like that, then please...manage me somehow... I don't really know how.

Negotiate with the Devil for me please.

Long Hair, Don't Care

2011-12-04T18:21:00.002-05:00

Long Hair,

Don't Care-

Why did you

bother to say

Hello again?

I thought your lips

quit my name

after sunrise.

You are a

familiar plague,

born of

reluctant

hope.