Death will be my Christmas

“There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.”  –Erna Bombeck

It’s 0140, Christmas morning.  I stopped being a child long ago.  There is very little of me left.

I like adulthood for being able to tune out Christmas music and ignore decorations.  The economy has so many people on edge that spray-snow-in-a-can optimism and cheer has dropped off.  Fatigue is in the air like burning tire smoke.  I want to take a chainsaw to the size of our criminal government, carve it down to something small and useful, like a pocketknife.

I went to the drugstore to peruse the As Seen on Tv crap.  Everything was still $19.99.  No Chia Pets!

No one needs a Chia Pet, that’s why it’s brilliant.  I don’t need one: I have dope.

I’ve smoked-out only once, “in moderation”.  I felt no happier.  I am going through the motions of being alive.

I saw a girl in the drugstore.  Tan jacket and ponytail, not ugly, not beautiful, but lovely.  Life.  I looked at her head, at the chestnut ponytail.  Life.  How pointless and precious.

I didn’t buy shit.  I had bought shit earlier, elsewhere.  I averaged approx. $50 per person times 5, an enormous sum for me.

I’d make it a thousand but I don’t have it.

I hate gifts, even getting them.  Let me explain.  I live in America, do you?  We can get nearly anything we want at any time of year (if you want pot all you gotta do is befriend 3 strangers).  Gifts:  if someone I know wanted something badly and I could afford it, I’d get it for them.  The people I know need what they want, they don’t waste.   I don’t like being forced to do anything; take something pleasurable like buying a gift for someone, and make it mandatory.  That’s hell.

You cannot opt out of the gift game unless you are a hermit.  I’ve tried.  It’s horrible to receive anything when you have nothing to give in return.  And yes, I tried warning everyone I knew not to give me anything.  It doesn’t work.

I have no useful advice for surviving holidays, any of them.  Enjoy what you can.

Death will be my Christmas.   Not suicide but natural death, I can wait.  I look forward to the change of pace and new environment, even in Hell.  It’s hell anyway to be alive yet numb.

Kaylan Nicole

I see from the “meatstats” men continue searching for Kaylan Nicole. Unfortunately for them (and me) I found this on her official website:

Kaylan has actually split the business, gotten married and moved back to the Midwest. Hope she comes back soon.

I don’t give a shit if she ever comes back. Any pornette that leaves the business even for a year will return to find 3500 skanx burning holes in the carpet with their knees, eyes closed and tongues out under that damned Peter North’s turkey baster. There’s so much damned norpography now there will actually be a day–if only a day–in the near future when the whole world has had enough image-sex and turns it off. Even Homer Simpson has been known to stop eating donuts.

I’m sure KN’s husband was either in the biz along with her, wealthy and/or a swinger. I just can’t imagine any pornette giving up the cock buffet and settling for just one, their brains are wired differently from other women’s. I wonder if the husband is excited by her body…of work, or never bothers. I could never love any woman who’s lain under a Marc Wallace arc of man-yogurt or TT Boy meat-seizure.

Mentally I understand how a man could marry a porn star, despite her past or because of it. My dead heart, however, completely rejects the idea as absurd. That’s why God is God and I don’t want God’s fucking job. I have no forgiveness.

Portrait of a Penis as a Deadly Cobra

I hadn’t jacked-off in 12 days, some kind of World Record. Mostly it didn’t bother me, but other times–especially when good ass was in sight–my scrotum burned like glass in a blue flame. It could’ve been my imagination, but it also began to feel leaden, less willing to yo-yo in response to stimuli.

Finally the time came to come again. I summoned Kaylan Nicole like a genie from her hard drive bottle, cuing the scene. CC Fafafini, yet another hairless porn-dolphin, was ramming that vagina like his penis was a plunger working to unclog a toilet in a BAD Mexican restaurant. Such a beautiful vagina she had, the close-ups excellent.

With my penis heavy like a shotgun I figured it’d be over fast. Not so!

I got through Kaylan’s plowing twice before sighing with boredom. I debated switching to something else; my left hand clumsily clicked the mouse. Now it was Mack Wallass, he of the hooked nose and horn, working away on one Renee Emerald, one of those women who do only one or two films, then nothing. Sean Elephantay, the Black Stud, was also involved.

The scene, low-key as it was, did the trick, but there was no blast. In the 12 days of inactivity, my poor cobra had forgotten how to spit, leaving only a few weak coins and gurgles of man-yogurt.

I tried again, but the show was over. The Cosmoslick lubricant had actually turned to foam, making it look as if I’d tried to screw a Starbucks latte.

The next night I had no idea of the outcome, but my cock had the block on lock. This time the scene was Wallass with Maya Puissant, which never fails. In short order I was feeling much better despite earlier losing my wallet. A brilliant, steaming Rorshach of white wet music glorified a soon-to-be-trashed sock, testament to the power of happy testicles, counterbalancing an unhappy mind.

Such is the power.

Jerking it later makes up for a lot

Just finished 7 straight days of mind-numbing, soul-killing “work”. Bitch, complain, do nothing. Old news.

WTF was that shit last week on Smallville? It made no fucking sense. Bizarro.

Kitchen Nightmares also ended. I was surprised that some of the turned-around restaurants indeed failed, though it was only explained in codas without revisiting the damned. It’s odd to see any discussion or admission of failure outside of sports or news.

The Word-Maker is helping me to write more. I’ve taken it to the liberry and made progress despite a loud-ass “class” of some kind yakking it up in one of the glassed-in “study” rooms.

Prince of Darkness. Small movie with big ideas. I have a message for you…and you’re not going to like it. Ha! ha! ha! ha!

Reading a book about survivalists. Good so far, I’ll review it when finished.

It finally got cold. All those folks north of say, Georgia, would probably be giving me BOTH frozen middle fingers had they the electricity to read this.

Florida in July is disgusting, hot, sticky, humid as a sauna, the closest to feeling trapped inside a frog’s swampy scrotum. I like and deserve cold winter, low 40s at the lowest. We’d been trapped the last 2 weeks in some kind of warm front which finally died tonight.

I DL’ed a video specifically for Kaylan Nicole, “kissing lips” tattoo on her ass and all. No Wallace, but the Three Stooges (North, Boy, Byron) were around. To my disappointment, TT finished in the other wench’s butt. There’s always something to fuck up the fucking. Still, I like Rex Borsky’s work.

The windows are open and it’s cold. I have tomorrow off. Kaylan Nicole will soon greet man-yogurt. Life is better than suck. Hail.