Monday, May 07, 2007

Cinco de Mayo is fun!

All I know is people are mean to me. I can just be sitting there taking a piss in a urinal and something bad can happen to me. I don't like pissing in a urinals because I have a shy bladder.

I know you are probably thinking that my shy bladder has some thing to do with my small penis size, but you are wrong. I don't care that you know about that. I have spent thousands of dollars on phone sex for women to talk about my small cock. Sure most of that money was secured from credit card withdrawals that I never paid back. But 50% of my income over the years has been borrowing money from credit cards and not paying it back.

Cinco de Mayo weekend was no different. Three guys were in the only stall in the bathroom at the club I went to. I am not sure what the name of that club is, but if three guys can sit in the only stall for over twenty minutes then I think you might have and idea about exactly how Westside this club actually is.

All I know is I was finally managing to coax the urine out from my bladder into the splash urinal when all at once the three guys decided to open the stall door and burst out towards me. I am not sure where I developed the cat-like reflexes to simultaneously stop pissing, zip up and dodge three men and and their exploding door only 6 inches from my ass, but I did. Maybe it's all the Spider Man movies I've been watching. So maybe it's not cat-like, but spider-like reflexes. But you get my point all the same anyway.

You would think spending Mexican Victory Day over the French (who hasn't had a victory day over the French?) with three of the sluttiest girls you've seen in years would make me feel OK. Or at least seeing all those other sluts that walked around in half shirts and small dresses with hard tits from the unseasonably cool weather-that none were prepared for-I guess no one watches the news anymore-would have at least gotten me off.

But it didn't. Instead I wrote poetry in my head.

in high heels
walk past me

I don't remember the rest. Just that a lot of hot chicks are out there and none of them will screw me. It got me thinking again. And I probably don't need to do that. Spider Man wants me to be an Existentialist. He wants me to think that my choices define me. That we can choose to be good or evil. I swear to god he almost got me. But I am stupidly emotional like that. Choices are bullshit. I saw it on a Penn & Teller.

My Cinco de Mayo sluts all wanted to dance. That's why we left the Cinco de Mayo celebration. That's how we ended up at some ghetto Westside club. That's when I noticed how odd other people are. I don't know what comes over you guys. But some of you out there hear a base groove and get this orgiastic compulsion to shake your ass.

I compare that compulsion to dance the way that Freud thought about religion. I guess you are under some kind of oceanic feeling. Maybe that's why you dance. I have no idea. The white bread in me has so mutated out in me rhythm that it is impossible for me to comprehend what the big deal is about dancing.

At least 2 of the slut girls wore short skirts. And I am pretty sure one of them didn't care how many times her tube top fell down again to expose her fake tits. I can masturbate for years from that. And she can't take that away from me. Even if this crazy chick is not the "slutty sister."

The so-called non-slutty sister told me in hushed tones that "she hadn't had sex in three years." That she could "almost feel her virginity growing back." That's hard for me to believe. Your tube top fell down like six times. Almost as hard to believe she told me that she never touched herself.

"You haven't had sex is three years and you don't even touch yourself?" I asked her. "Yep." Was her reply. "I don't even care about it anymore."

I lost the chance to bond with her over that. I can't remember the last time I has sex, but I think it was when Reagan was in office. My friend may be getting his MoJo back. For that I am glad. I don't begrudge other people's happiness, no matter what you may think of me. But I have lost my MoJo for good. I am not getting any younger, or any better looking anytime soon.

I don't want to say that I smell death nearby. In fact I will probably outlive my desire to be alive. If that hasn't happened already. I guess you could say that I can't get a chick because I am not positive enough. Chicks always want some one positive and passionate about life. Someone with a plan or a purpose.

I guess I am passionate. I always tell chicks in my mind on Yahoo personals that I am not very passionate. But maybe I am. I am passionate about you not being so god damn passionate. I don't even know what the fuck that means. But you get my point. The point is stop fooling yourself and look around. There is nothing to be excited about. We are all going to die and there is probably nothing we can do about that. And there may be no point to living anyway after all.

I don't think you can make a philosophical case for life at least. But I soldier on. Because that is where we are at as a species. We have come to the ultimate awareness of our own absurdity. Absurdity is the only concept Existentialism got right. And for that we are eternally grateful. If by grateful I mean a thousand jumpers thank-you.

My stomach is upset. It feels all sicky. Like it collects bile. I can't sleep and I am tired and wired at the same time. I am not exhausted, I just feel spaced out. Like I took too many sudaphedrine. I have medicine head. My acid reflux if shaking and growling at me. Tums will not do the job. My stomach growl was louder than the movie I watched tonight. I hope none of you heard it. If you did you might have thought I was farting. But I wasn't farting.

When I close my eyes I see stars. Like a kid hit in the head with an aluminium baseball bat. But I'll try and spell better next time. Sorry about that. It's just that I see sparks. And I get so light-headed these days. All for no reason. The sparks look like grainy 1964 color home video. And I am Zapruder. And I am following around Anna Nicole Smith.

Maybe I will go bowling this week. But I don't think so. I know the library has misplaced the book they have on hold for me. I went sometime a few weeks ago. They said they had the book, but when I got there. No book. Why is that? What makes them think this time is going to be any different? I am going to go again today. To the library. And that book better be there. Or there just might be hell to pay. Maybe I will be that asshole guy for a change.

"I'd like to speak to your manager. Just where the hell is my book? I came all the way down here , because you guys said my book was ready. And now I get here and there is NO FUCKING BOOK IS THERE???"

"No fucking way! I can't fucking take this. What the fuck are doing? How do you run this kind of place? Why can't you just go look for it in the hold section? It's not in the new book section! I don't care what the computer says, I've looked there. I used to work in a library. This library in fact, so I think I can find my way around. OK!!? Get it? I think I know that it's not here!"

No it's not just going to appear. Otherwise it would already be here so don't put me on the list again. It will just cycle up and the book is lost and it won't be here when I get here and I will ride my bike all the way down here and the book won't be here. Do you know it's 90 degrees outside? Do you? It's fucking hot outside asshole and you made me walk all the way down here and now I am not getting my book what the FUCK?"

But you know I won't do that. I am not your fucking alpha male and I am not here to rescue you. Take some advice from me if you will. Follow some of the things I teach. You will get there someday. And I will be right behind you. Knowing the whole time you could do it! Because you are all so beautiful, man. Beautiful.

I drank way too much soda. What do you think? Maybe too much soda? That's all it probably is. Get away from the fucking computer. Quit it. Stop looking over here at me. Like I am the freak. Like just cuz I am a bit deformed. Fuck you. You're deformed too. Quit trying to get at me. Get out of my head.

The buzzing. The fucking buzzing. The fucking buzzing in my head. That's the problem. It won't stop. And writing isn't making it go away. You could just stop reading you know, stop having such a sick and adverse reaction. If you don't like it. Then stop reading this damn thing, OK? Isn't that simple? It's not DRAMA. Ok? You just pretend to get over me and go on defrosting frozen dinners. And picking up spilled shit off the floor.

You could just let it lie there. The whole world is just falling apart anyway. Second law of thermodynamics and all. This post could have ended a bit ago. But I don't like making things easy on you. Your life is already easy enough. The tall girls in high heels. With proud tits. Walking by me. Past me. Didn't you see me? Did you know I was there?

There are things I could do that could make you aware. I could make you notice me. I could make you aware after all. Stop walking around unconscious of me damn it.

No. That would be worse wouldn't it? Don't notice me. Please don't notice me. I don't want your judgement. Your appraisal. That negative energy. If you gave me any energy at all it would be negative. Because we hate the ugly? Don't we?

I do too. I hate them too. All the uglies. Those fuckers. some of them demand things. Not in crisis. Not from despair. They just want. They want to be able to want. Like they have some kind of entitlement to their desires. Their putrid ugly desires. When they have sex it is always grimy sex. Nasty sex. When they do it. They do it ugly and dirty. They don't shine they sweat. And it accumulates in their folds. Smells. Dirty diaper rotten smells while they fuck and they don't stop fucking they don't care they just keep fucking anyway dirty fucking and fucking unclean.yuck.


Evil Spock said...

A cornucopia of posts pour from your born again virginity. Sex drains Evil Spock of creativity and makes Evil Spock not care about the blog.

Oh, and Evil Spock cannot go #2 in public restrooms.

Romius T. said...

no sex for me either -leaves me with too much for the blog-how cold one even consider a number 2 in public? ick

Knows It All said...

First, you clearly have never worn a tube top. And if you have, its really not the same challenge if you don't have boobs.

Second, non-slutty sister lies. Big time. Unless she has an STD that even grosses herself out, which is more than possible. Think about it.

And (C) Maybe you should just pee in beer bottles under the table. Less attention. There are no lines...that kind of convenience.
Do it.

Jezebelsriot said...

Romius, this was a thoroughly enjoyable post. I spent Cinco de Mayo getting my graduation on, stupid cardboad hat on and all. I got no horny mexicans dancing with me in giant sombreros and no tequila drinks and no hot Latino dudes sputtering rapid fire spanish at me.

But I did get some Thai food and enough beer to make me scream out "I am the mother fucking god of mother fucking education bitches! Bow to me!"

And cheer up Rom, I'll send you pussy through the mail.

Ros said...

Heavy Kafka vibe Mr. Marxist. Cinco de Mayo via In The Penal Colony or something.

The non-slutty sister always says she doesn't rub it, but if you get her in the sack she's the one that plays a rusty trombone and wears you out for a week to come.

Romius T. said...

Holy shit I am getting pussy through the mail. Awesomeness.



True Treu sir. She told me that once she got in a relationship she totally got nuts and wanted to bang away at it. So I think you are right!

Anonymous said...

Well, according a mutual friend of ours, the first step towards success with the hootchies is an obscene amount of confidence. The first step towards obscene confidence is a healthy dose of misogyny. The first step towards misogyny is contempt for the opposite sex. The first step toward an adquate amount of contempt is not getting any for an extended period of time. I'd say you are on your way.

Romius T. said...

Wow who knew I was doing so good then? Awesome. I might just get a a gal soon after all.