You go out on these dates and it's sad to say that I tend to fall in love with my bullshit more than the results from it. Meaning that I get the pussy but, I leave afterward not really sastified in the actual intercourse than in the mere words I'm saying to get it..

Nothing against the girl I'm with, she's thoughtful and fun to be around. Oddly it's the callous twats and self centered nitwits that entertain me more while fucking them. I guess because deep down I hate them and desire to destroy every fiber about them. And why not? They are just fucking cunts.

I have sex with this girl three times last night, which means nothing. I rather have sex once and last countless minutes instead of three times in mere moments after I start. It's not horrible, or boring. It's just numb..

The fucking foreplay is more entertaining. Maybe I should just kill myself and get the confusion over with...

Just hold those soft thighs in midstroke, you start to get that tingle in the head of your cock. Pull back that hammer and splatter the fucking ceiling. Half of that "Fuck it" facial expression remains as I lay limp. Just where the fuck am I going anyway?

I wonder sometimes if our brain is slowly try to kill us.

We can't fucking sleep or digest things properly. In the last ten years the use of sleep aids and stomach acid controlling drugs has risen. I should know because I buy them regularly and frequently go to the shelf and it will be sold out of generic brands and most of the large volume bottles.

And this is just the shit you get off the counter. A doctor constantly feeds the over 50 with the stronger shit. You need a darvacet and I can bet you half of the elderly are toting a bottle on them. The doctor's hand that shit out like paper flyers and ignore the obvious addiction it creates.

Truthfully half of those pricks are on a diet of it. Physicians have the worst habits, the majority of them are alcoholics and it's no wonder the malpractice cases in America have risen so rapidly the past twenty years.

I'm just pissed that I don't fill out the fucking insurance forms and get on my own regiment. I feel so left out.

I go out to Mayford's and it's sadly filled with the same old sot drunks time in and time out and, you wonder what would break the monotiny for those poor bastards.

Is it the loneliness or just the habit calling to them.

And why does Mayford have a damn stamp machine sitting on one of the corner's of his bar? It isn't as if anyone has the urge to mail a fucking letter to anybody.

It's hard not to laugh. On the end is a 90 lb. barfly who has dwindled down to beer and bones. His head looks two sizes too large for his body. I imagine at one time the pieces once fit for him but the whole concept of his habits are now consuming him and, you wonder if indeed the poor guy has ten years left in him. He harasses the poor bar maid every time she makes a pass and, she's biting her tongue not to reach over and slap the shit out of him.

I usually hate myself for getting the urge to sit in that place. The stale walls and 30 year old decor eat at you while sipping pissy beer in that haze of smoke belching out of those deadbeats. It turns your own conscious into a viscious bastard and he laughs at you all the way home...

Hey Seabass, What the fuck happened to you?

I was out there living my life, minding my business like I try and do. Adjusting to my job and trying to run this crew of people while keeping my shit together and, I thought I was doing well.

So, I check my mail and inside was this letter from the I.R.S. I open it and it says I have to pay back fucking taxes. The place I worked for before, in general broke his agreement with me and never put any money in to cover it. He was holding a grudge because I moved on and decided to break one off on me. So I called him and confronted him about it.

He gave this bullshit answer and I then turned the conversation into a farewell fuck you speech laced with what I thought he was, which resembled a piece of shit.

I was living in a place that I rented from his mother. You would think she would protect her interests better but, tried to pawn the issue off into something between him and me. I decided she was guilty by association, moved out and rented a room at the folks. Paid back that 2,617.00 dollars that would have paid a few months rent, to bomb some more ragheads and went back to living like I was in high school. And to be honest... I like it.

I was thinking of buying me a Transam and hanging in a supermarket parking lot to chase some tail. The whole experience liberated me from some sorry people, helped me disown a few more relatives and, narrow down my funeral wake to one person. The guy propped up on a shovel, trying on the shoes I'm buried in, to see if they fit.

I am living out my dream...

It's tough being me. I'm so god damn likeable, and I don't like anybody.

I attract people and I have no idea why. I don't even have to say many words and that is the best part about it. Because after you carry on a conversation with me for a long period of time it becomes evident that you need to get away from me and in a hurry.

I don't bring it on them but, I can assure you that I am the fault of it and, oddly it was them who managed to begin the dialogue so many months ago. I don't get it, I never will and I shouldn't pretend to understand it. Sometimes it gets fascinating due to I can see disaster unfold months in advance and even give them due warning.

They never listen, they just get intriqued. Then appalled and when I disappear from their lives. I become their conversations, their old days and their whispers. I become the obsession that crosses their minds when thinking back.

I try and tell them that. In advance...