a gradual descent

New look, for those of you who're interested (that spells "whore" without that apostrophe, a callous self-reference to my desire for more attention, hence the new look). This is what one would have had the pleasure of seeing if one had been so inclined to look inside my room during the first half of this year, minus the film burn, of course. In my scramble to attempt to cram and stuff all my extraneous assets, my belongings, my crap, in my tiny two-door hatchback mid-June when I left Santa Cruz forever, I regret to inform you that the lamp did not make it, which reminds me of other things that had also fallen by the wayside, unfortunately left behind. The miniature refrigerator, whose door into a tiny magical compartment will no longer act as a portal to cool and store my food and expired polaroid packfilm (I do plan to use them someday). The Sealy mattress and box spring that originally belonged to my brother now serves only to provide a resting place for a friend, Devin Shinn. And probably some other shit I can't remember. These fallen comrades remind us of the transience of all things - that all things, including our possession of material objects, must inevitably pass.

It's been one whole year since I came back to the states after leaving Japan, after living there for over a year, after working my ass off filling applications and getting good grades for a year so I could go there for a year. I won't go into it again, but I will say this: shit's fucking crazy. Time has a way of going by in such a way that makes me sit dumbfounded when I look back and realize that it's passed without me having done anything worthwhile. Like seriously, what the fuck? Way to make me look like an ass, time, you douche. But I say this knowing full well that in all probability I will continue with my selfish ways of unproductivity and inertness. I got all this potential energy stored up, baby. I just need you to be the catalyst. But honey, it's gonna take a shit ton of dynamite to get this boulder rolling down that hill.

I think internet porn has made me complacent. Why try to make social connections with potential mating partners when I can sit here instead and masturbate to all sorts of disgusting, kinky shit - the kind of sex I'll probably never have in real life? I am Randy Marsh and his fixation with shemales and Brazilian fart fetishes, swimming in my own ectoplasm, blaming it on ghosts. Given the chance to actually play the game in real life, with real people, and not this imaginary interweb world, I opt to stay on the bench and observe, playing tricks with myself in my head, convincing myself, fuck it, she's kind of a stuck up bitch (which is true), she ain't worth the time (which isn't true, as we are all aware that my time is worthless), plus I ain't her type (even though I can probably make her laugh till her clothes fall off, being the charming, funny motherfucker that I am). But like Sun Yue of the Lakers, I get no playtime, though in this case, by choice, because the bottom line is, as much as I'll bitch and whine and make half-assed excuses about it, I'm just a big, stinky, wet, floppy pussy, not unlike those I watch streaming online from porn tube sites.

Don't try to convince me that this is beneath me, that I'm better than this. Let me wallow in this pit a little longer. Let me earn it by my own accord.

Someone dialed my cellphone the other day. When I called back the woman on the other line said her sister "Monica" (Monica? I don't know no goddamn Monica) probably dialed the wrong number. I should have exclaimed "fuck that!" in retort, and told her I don't like people playing on my phone.