I got a massage today at an AMP (Asian massage parlor). Some so-so attractive Chinese girl got on top of me in reverse cowgirl, so that her ass rested on my rib cage and she was facing my feet. She really jack-hammered away at my cock. She was stroking so hard and fast that I barely felt the orgasm. If you think post-orgasm talk with a stranger is awkward, try it with a language barrier while you’re attempting to put on your underwear in a dimly lit room with atmospheric massage music playing too loudly from an iPod speaker dock. From what I understood and heard, she said she would be working there until September when she goes back to China for a month. And I think she asked me to come back and see her, and then she hugged me. I handed her two $20 bills for the “extras.” I can still feel the baby oil on me.
I don’t feel like much of a writer and I haven’t in a long time. I don’t feel like much of anything to anyone either. I am much better these days at choosing my thoughts – recognizing the harmful ones and throwing them away before they take root, like a weed in concrete. I’ve been living on a credit card and a lot of fucking prayer lately. I put the last of my checking account in my gas tank, and now I’m running up my credit card balance ’til pay day. The real toll of all this is that it makes me feel so exhausted and worn down. To live a struggle like this all alone and have no one along for the ride. The driver seat of my car is worn, but the passenger seat is pristine. Being happy and exhausted would not be that bad, I imagine. Being exhausted and in love would not be that bad, I imagine.
I am thankful for what I do have, but I’ll be hungry at work tomorrow. I’ll smell other peoples’ lunches and see their carry-out sandwiches. They will seem like wealthy people to me just because of that. Yesterday, I crept around the office in my dirty pants hoping for some treats or sweets in the break room. There were none.
It’s the annual post that I know all of you wait an entire year for. Time to see who has spent the last year giving me day-boners at work and making lube and Kleenex steady purchases for my trips to Target. Competition was stiff (pun intended), and there were a few ladies on the bubble who failed to get the phone call informing them of this career-making honor. However, one woman stood erect (pun intended) above the rest and earned the honor as the sole inductee for 2016.
Tennis star, Eugenie Bouchard
Not since Molson Golden has Canada exported anything this perfect. A glance at the pictures above and you know why Nike designs her tennis dresses with the male viewer in mind. And one look at those pictures almost makes me want to forgive Canada for hockey.
My latest crush works at Chipotle. She looks like an only slightly shorter Maria Sharapova. The last time she made my veggie bowl she had fresh hickeys on the right side of her neck. The time before that she had fresh cut marks on the inside of her left bicep. They were red razor marks that looked like messy hash-tag symbols. She’s an obvious hot mess.
It’s 12:45am and I’ve only just started drinking. I have a sixer of Miller tall boys that I will work my way through before dawn. Kim texted me that she will be in town the first weekend of February and wants to see me. We have a long text history, but the last time I saw her was 2009 when we got drunk at Green Mill, passed out on my bed and had sex twice in the morning before she left. A nostalgia fuck would be nice, I guess.
Money and groceries are scarce again ’til next Friday. What used to be called struggling is now called intermittent fasting, I guess. Either way, I’ve dropped six pounds in the past month from involuntarily skipping lunches, microwave popcorn dinners and black tea to stop the hunger pains and cravings.
Today at work, the boss bought in fresh donuts for the break room. The office decorum is to take one. I waited ’til it was clear, walked in and snatched two and rushed back to my cubicle, the bounty hidden in two napkins. I hurriedly shoved them in my mouth not even caring that the glaze was making my fingers sticky. I immediately returned to the break room under the guise of getting a cup of the cheap, bitter (but free) coffee. I poured the black sludge into a styrofoam cup, thinking of the Saving Private Ryan scene when Tom Hanks watches the officer pour coffee into a tin cup after the allies have secured Normandy. I grabbed my third donut.
Walking back to my cubicle, a lady I rarely talk to had set out a tray of Halloween candy on a file cabinet outside her cubicle. I’m sure others have walked by and taken a dum-dum or a Hershey’s kiss. I grabbed three mini Hershey bars, not believing my luck of free dark chocolate. They’re in my bare fridge now resting alone on the top shelf, and the pic below is how I feel about them…
Somehow, someway, I have a little over $100.00 more in my checking account than I thought I had, with no pending transactions or checks. I am tempted to take a trip to Half-Price books to buy a book or a journal or something…some tiny luxury to lift my spirits a little. But on the other fuckin’ hand, I have a utility bill that is starting to rival my credit card balance, so I should save it for that.
Being perpetually low on money has taught me that I don’t have to eat every time I feel hungry. I can drink water or brew some of my cheap, unfair trade coffee to curb my appetite. But I don’t have to eat every time I feel hungry. There are worse things that I’ve been through…far worse things than feeling hungry. I have coffee, oatmeal and eggs and that’s fine for now. Fuck eating.
I want to look back on this part of my life and think…know that it was all worth it. That it was all leading to somewhere great for me. It doesn’t make any sense to me now, but I hope it will some fuckin’ day. God must be putting me through this for some reason.
It’s the beginning of the month, so I can afford things – things like a full tank of gas, Chipotle, a couple of movie rentals from iTunes, groceries. It won’t last long, though. I ate a big-ass burrito and a half-pint of ice cream today, but I feel good even though I only slept for a couple hours last night. But I am tired and my stomach is full.
If Carrie at work was single, I’d probably ask her out and end-up banging her. She has athletic legs and bouncy boobs. She’s at least someone to talk to these days.
I picked up some Nyquil today, and I’m going to drink some and get a badly needed eight hours tonight. I am so tired that I probably won’t even masturbate to Nicole Aniston tonight.
I said I “probably” won’t…
I saw on Instagram last night that Kelley is now engaged. Jesus f’ing christ – depressing. I met her before she was even 21-years-old, and I’ve now seen the cycle of her young life now lead to marriage. She’s in her mid 20’s. She’s young, blonde and happy. She’s young, engaged and she’s never had to spend one day completely alone. Today, I won’t talk to anyone and I’ll beat off at least twice to porn stars that I will never meet.
So fuckin’ sad, depressed and powerless. I had only about five bucks in my account, which had to last me until payday on August 1. Cheney floated me $200.00, though…it sucked to accept it but I had to eat. I was skipping lunch at work. I had a dollar on Friday, which paid for the vending machine Sun Chips.
I haven’t even been getting enjoyment from the gym lately. I can’t lose enjoyment in the only things that get me through these depression days…daze. I need to hold onto those things. I need fuckin’ something, anything to cling to. Me and Katie went to Barnes and Noble today. I spent about twelve bucks on the journals above. Cheney said an hour of writing every day always helps her. I guess it’s like what masturbation does for me, maybe.
After Barnes and Noble we came back here and Katie fucked me on the living room area rug. It’s hard to be present…in the moment during depression…even during sex. Your thoughts are always floating elsewhere in the corners of your brain, but they’re rarely focused on what is right in front of you. She was grinding on top of me and I could only think about how the rug underneath me was scratching and burning my shoulders.
Katie is in the bathroom now re-doing her makeup, and the rug burns on the back of my shoulders are fresh and bright red. We’re going to walk down to Lola on Xerxes to get drunk on house wine.
I want a live-in girlfriend. I want to be lying in bed and hear her in the kitchen making noise. I want to hear her laughing in the bathroom when she’s putting on her makeup. I want a good night’s sleep.
I dreamed last night that Kelley (she cuts my hair) was an escort and I was her client. She was naked, standing up and putting on her wrist watch after we had just had sex. I was pretty disappointed when I woke up because it wasn’t true.
The depression hasn’t been too bad lately. It was here a little tonight. I really miss the excitement of getting ready for a date on the weekend. But at times I really feel like I’m having a nervous breakdown. I’m not fucking sleeping, and the financial stress of my life is fucking really wearing on me. My damn paychecks do a quick disappearing act from bills. I’d like to have some disposable income again. I’m having a nervous breakdown.