'Kotoba' may or may not be the Japanese word for 'vagina'.

Let's memorize it shall we?




'Ko' as in the 'co' in 'coitus'.
'To' as in the 'toe' in 'cameltoe'.
'Ba' like how a guy says 'can I stick it in your butt?'.


Kotoba. Kotoba? Kotoba.

It's Japanese for the word 'word'.


P.S. The Japanese word for vagina is 'chitsu' or 膣(ちつ). Not going to tell you how to pronounce that though.




Qualified masses
Give a certain meaning
To movements and such
And piece together
Fragments of intruded time
But people don't move
Like waves
Each particular body
Floating, bouncing to
A different step or roll
Clashing with the lot
One by thoughtful one
Until the moment
Bumping turns to carnage
Of the mind
And on some level
They dilute each other
Spirits bursting through
Touching their intangibles
And loving 'cause they
Can't hate it all
But hate it all
Because it means nothing
In this, this
Life that fits in brackets
But for now, not in a diamond
Or a rubber, O! They're
All just products, simple
Quantified assumptions




See, the shitty thing about being 'out of love' with people is that the impression is made somewhere that there is supposed to be a 'new beginning' or 'something good' on the other side of it. But god fucking damn, it's just mutherfocking BOOORING.

Artists especially get a lot of flack for breaking things up/apart/off, because 'that's where the inspiration comes from', the 'heartbreak', right!?!?! Bitch, please. Please please please please please, spare me. Do you know when I make what I want to make, and I make it GOOOOOOD? And I make it BEEEAAAUTIFUL? It's when I'm sitting on the couch, next to you, typing nonsense about some indescribable awesome that I am feeling at that moment.

When do I make the shit that I hate and can't stand to look at ever again? NAO. Right FUCKING now. This goddamned thing is a train wreck and I'm OBVIOUSLY channeling a 43-year-old obese Black female hair-stylist with a 6th grade education just to tap into these emotions, so FUCK THIS.

But no. Too late. It's over. No fucking. I don't get any break-up sex. Which I guess is fine with me since it 'sucked so much'. I don't even WANT break-up sex. Totes lied when I said yours was my 'fave vagina fo' realz' and shit. Say that to every damn bitch. And as far as we're concerned, you ain't nuthin' but a li'l white bitch EHNYEWAY!

Figured I wrote you 30 love letters, least I could do was write one piece of hate mail for the grand finale.

I am going to miss you forever, bitch/sugardoll/female-me.





Walked home from the gypsy palace cross-faded the other night. It was dark and pretty much everything was 50-87% non-visible. Had to walk with hands out in front and was out of cigarettes so there was no putting up with injury really.

Archie and Veronica (but really Betty's probably the best [via the author 'having a thing for blonds' maybe]) live in a place called 'Riverdale'. Was there that 'other day/night' and walked along the double-yellows, down a street with old-fashioned lights. All round and bulbous and bright, yet not lighting anything but the paranoia, ironically, walking over that river and through those woods to Lil Mexico, where swine flu runs rampant.

The hallucinations were of a girl in a black dress on a bewilderment sunshine and over a dusty swamp next to this literary heartthrob with no money in his pockets. She shipped him off to ga-ga land and there he went! And then she was in the hallucinations and they were gone, gone, gone, like Beat poets or douchebags say it, like 'wasted' or 'transcending reality' kind of, or maybe.

Wish she was here right now. Wish she wasn't 'all alone' in a 'big city' or with 'other people', but that's what makes it all unbearable, and life tends to be that way. 'Until next time'.





I am with gypsies. I am with gypsies doing gypsy things and listening to gypsy music and watching gypsy basketball. And I am thinking about a girl from Los Angeles, California.

She is a girl that happens to be beautiful, not at all of her own doing, and she has amazing taste in clothing. I am listening to a woman speaking in French about toothpaste and love and it is pleasantly chilly. There is a sporadic inclusion of these swarmy gusts of wind that each remind me of the beach.

When the beaches are hot in Los Angeles, California people walk around and purchase bongs and eat pizza even though they're on a diet. Calories, bro. And they tan and their freckles come out of all those pale places and make the strawberry blonds look especially special.

And there are lips. Lips, in the cool of the pseudo-summer make for a magical, delightful dish. And there are words like 'sweltering' and 'unbearable' and then the beach eases the fears that these frightful words induce. The rides to the beaches are like ventures into this daringly welcoming ring of Hell. Just, riding the 1-10 or the 4-0-5, windows down and your heart thumping against your lungs and ears and everything. It always ends in love-making.

And here I am, on the other side of this dastardly continent, sitting with gypsies and drinking gypsy alcohol and watching gypsy hockey. And I am thinking of a girl with a divine pair of breasts.




You are here
Here is there for everywhere
But here
And near is far
When you imagine it after smoking a bowl
And the end of an haiku
Is bittersweet with its imagery
And synergy
Boom! You're there
You don't know where
But it's gnarly on a black backdrop





Patrick Andrews is in pain. He thinks it is probably his appendix. It feels like there is a four-foot steal rod that is being repeatedly forced in and out of his gut, bypassing all of his organs except for one he wasn't aware existed, and it's giving him a headache.

Patrick goes to the hospital in search of medical attention. He is afraid his appendix has ruptured and he may only have minutes to live. He is convinced that he is going to die. He is convinced that he will never finish his term paper because he will die before he finishes it.

The nurse tells him to wait. He waits. There is nothing he can do but sit in the waiting room and wait. There are other people around him with different looks on each of their faces. Most of them look like they are convinced that they are going to die. There are fish in the fish tank. Possibly one of every saltwater fish in existence. With the exception of a sardine. Sardines might be freshwater fish. Patrick is not a ichthyologist. He is dying. And it's giving him a headache.

He tries to imagine a beach in Maui, to distract him from the pain. He imagines a beautiful woman on a beach in Maui, suntanning and being calm getting assaulted by a fleet of unusually aggressive crabs that are not indigenous to Hawaii, but came from a South-Asian archipelago aboard a ship and supplanted the original crab population by being unusually aggressive. They pin the beautiful woman down and they take turns pinching her appendix with their claws. Patrick Andrews starts to cry.

The doctor tells Patrick Andrews that he has pancreatic cancer and will have to undergo chemotherapy, but probably won't make it. Patrick is surprised, but only a very little bit surprised. Later, the nurse that told Patrick to wait offers him sex on account of his not living for very much longer. He declines. He is not attracted to her because he is a homosexual.

The nurse sits in her bed and cries from 10p.m. until 5a.m. because she does not feel pretty and thinks that if terminally ill men do not want to sleep with her then she will never have children, but then she eats a 32-ounce tub of Edy's chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream and is over it. At 3:07a.m. Patrick Andrews is on a comfortable dose of morphine and decides to jump out of a window at the hospital. His last thought is about a puppy.




I get very exited about things. I get very excited about pizza. I get very excited about Salvador Dali. I get very excited about the prospect of spending all night dancing and drinking more alcohol than my body knows what to do with. But I have a problem called not caring about things generally, and I don't know what to do when my emotions start 'going bad'. I wish that I had a ritual for when I am down and don't feel like thinking anymore, but I hear it's the kind of thing you're supposed to 'wait out' or 'get over'.

At the moment I am caught in the dilemma of not really caring, generally, being down, and also being excited about stuff. This is very confusing.

I saw a film recently about sadomasochism and love. And I got to thinking, do I have a fetishes? And if I do, how will them affect stuff? How do I, specifically, as an 'individual', show women that I think they're 'hot'/bangable/have daddy issues I'm willing to subscribe to? And i realized, that I don't know or even have vague answers to any of these questions. So let's explore my 'psyche' a little together! (be careful, there are booby traps)

I touched lips/tongues with a person who has testicles once. I wondered at the time if I were a 'faggot' or 'liked dudes', but immediately realized that I wasn't/didn't, and probably wouldn't ever feel compelled to do anything like that again. It was kind of a lot like making out with a girl, except that the whole time I worried he might bite me in a way that was unpleasant/irreparable, and I couldn't imagine an accesible vagina getting wet in my vicinity any time in the near future. So I left.

I have also made passes at girls that wear glasses, and they seem to like having sex a lot. But how did I do that? Did I REALLY just put my lips on some broad's neck a little at some obscure point in a conversation and THAT made her take her clothes off? I don't understand. Help. I can't remember how I lost my virginity.

Maybe I'm just a romantic. Maybe when I am 'in my element' I blackout and female ejaculate magically rains down all over my new cell phone. Or maybe it's alcohol. I don't know how much sex I've had while 'wasted' vs. how much I've had 'sober', or how many times I've said no thank you either. But I do know that the prospect of sticking my wingwong in a gutlocker gets me kind of excited in my head, I just don't know how/what I do when given that opportunity to 'make it awkward'.

Every couple of hours in the day my face feels like I'm going to cry, but then I don't. And then I go on facebook and stalk my ex-girlfriend. And then I realize that she hasn't updated her facebook. And then I get bored. Then I say, I'm going to write a chapter in my novel. Then three hours later I realize that I'm watching a movie I don't know the plot for. I think this is called 'depression'. What's weird though about it is that, when you hear 'depression', you think of someone that is sad all of the time, and I'm not sad at all. My brain just doesn't get excited about things I kind of felt like I was forcing it to get excited about anyway before I was 'depressed'.

I'm also a 'nihilist', which doesn't 'help'. So when I lose interest in things





Yes and yes (but mostly maybe and maybe).

Though I think that push-up bras are deceptive on some level [i.e. Afro/Germanic chicks trying to lessen the saggage], I do like the 'hi there, I'm here to make you smile' quality about them. I feel like a lot of people have touched on this subject in written and otherwise comedic media, but no one has ever mentioned what happens once the push-up bra comes off. I gotta admit, it's a little disappointing, pretty much all of the time, no matter the spectacle of the breasts borne within. But boobs are boobs and girls have somehow realize that there's this thing about them that gets guys into a bit of a fluster, so, for appearances, up, up and away is juuuuust fine.

And, though honestly, I'm not much of a boob guy, I get that a good grabbing [try not to think of a crowded subway here] is a big part of foreplay, and just FYI to the femmes, bras, and push-up bras especially, make nipple location a lot tougher, which I don't like b/c it makes me feel like a dunce, when ACTUALLY it's just REALLY difficult to make-out properly AND know what your palms, fingers, tongue and thighs are doing at the same time, not to mention the fact that the only part of my anatomy that's screaming for attention when this is going on is my cock. So just know that it's a gift in public and an obstacle in private is all I'm saying.

Thongs do not make your ass look grabbable, unless it just IS. But they do eliminate the whole 'removing the panties' part of foreplay. But I kind of like that part and do it anyway, so I dunno. They're gimmicky and I imagine it makes going to the bathroom more of an adventure, but besides that I don't know if I have an opinion/understand their purpose with respect to being 'sexy'. Does having something rubbing up against your asshole all day get you hot?

BUT if your ass just IS grabbable, thongs remove the visible pantyline problem/make that badonkadonk sing to me through your evening dress. So in this case, yes yes yes to thongs 'in da club'. Don't think they're necessarily appropriate for a dinner party though, but that's totally up to you and your sexy.

I've been going too long w/o sex to be talking about/visualizing all this. Need to take a break/write my novel/get some aggression out.




DISCLAIMER: If you don't currently (or don't want to) feel sad/angry/depressed, please skip this and patiently await post #300, b/c this shit hurts [via a lot].

Specifically, the anxiety-inducing kind. The kind where you wonder if someone you gave a little piece of yourself to still exists(?). This feeling is littered with questions like 'is that person dead?', 'does that person think about me as much as I think that I think about them?', 'did that person start cutting themselves/become a prostitute/start taking psychologically-debilitating anti-depression medication because of me?'. The answer to all of these questions is no, but that doesn't stop the onset of sudden, intense, ribcage-centric claustrophobia, where your heart wishes it had a mile radius to fucking flop around in, instead of being stuck in your tiny, anxiety-stricken chest cavity. Shit hurts (a lot).

In spite of the fact that this 'emotion' doesn't hurt (at all), it is a plateau that inevitably cascades into a deep, dark place that sucks balls called 'The Valley of Kind Of Wishing I DID Care'. Because, once there, your head dashes from idea to idea in search of something you want to do, but then you don't want to do anything, so you resort to patterns of unproductive habitual actions, like TV, and cleaning*, and scouring the internet for things that'll make you giggle. When actually, quite suddenly, you realize (Today,) you just want to be held, tightly, by pretty much anyone, but specifically one person, and worst of all, you want it to be forever. (FML.)

*'a clean house is a sign of an unfulfilled life(time of domestic slavery)'

Hate feels AMAZING. It feels soooooo good to hate shit. Because once you get into the flow of hating something you can never find enough reasons to just rip it apart. And as long as that outlet is open, you can just ramble and ramble and ramble and bitch and moan and curse until your teeth and tongue and inner ear can't stand to listen to your bullshit anymore. And then suddenly...

You feel like the worst fucking homo sapien in the world, for feeling such an intense emotion about someone/thing. And there are 7 billion people on the planet. And you're the worst of all of them. And it hurts (a lot).

It's not until after guilt that anybody ever feels love. And then that just makes you feel more guilty. 'Why couldn't I have loved the person before I cornered them? "For who they are", before I let them in and made them an accessory to my imperfect and grief-stricken existence?? Who the fuck am I to even pretend to love someone???'. And that's when it hits you, that it doesn't matter, because it's love, and love is all that matters, and you're a massive douchebitch because you can't stop now that you've started (see 'GUILT'). And it feels (really, really) fantastic. Yay. Awesome. So when were you planning on dumping me? Tuesday? Oh, great! I'm free all day Tuesday!

Going to go chuckle myself to sleep now.





I agree with most if not all of the statements mentioned by my colleague in the post below...

except one thing.

NEVER, under any circumstance, should a woman accept 'fashion advice' from Buttercup McGillicuddy.


anyway, off to romp in foreign lands with foreign women <3






I am not the person who should be writing this, because I don't hold strong opinions on anything except for my own personal preferences and couldn't give less of a shit about public opinion, so here's 'WHAT I LIKE (!!!???) ABOUT GIRLS and might renege on later' by Buttercup McGillicuddy Esq. III.

Let's start from the top:

Now as much as girls' hair varies from curl-to-Q-to-k'nap and the ever-envied but non-too-desirable STRAIGHT [via 'i can't do anything with this shit, EVER'], dudes kinda just want something they can grab every now and then. So aesthetically, do wtf you want, but make it grabbable, and maybe run-your-fingers-throughable. That's fun. And speaking of fun, blondes don't necessarily have more of it, so highlight it if you want, but dye's an experiment and an experiment only in my book. Do not make dyed 'your look' plz.

Make-up may make you feel pretty, but pretty's not what you want a guy to think once he's STARTED talking to you. You want a connection, and make-up doesn't make that connection. If a guy wants to fuck/love/ruin everything that might have appeared sane about you, he'll forget that you have pimples, small eyelashes, and unusually pale cheeks/lips and do what's gotta be done to transport you from wherever you are to the love shack.

BUT since you're all about competition and are going to spend hours making your face up anyway, make it grabbable. Lip-grabble. the more plump your face looks, the more it looks like it can be suckled [try NOT to imagine cow teets here], and any guy who's decent at kissing is going to want his lips to linger where the supple parts are, I.E. lips/cheeks/nose/eyelids/forehead/chin(maybe, idk). How to properly accentuate that shit is what beauty school's for, 'cause fuck if I know.

Okay. So La Frere hates sweaterthings. I like sweaterthings. Because they're grabbable, and easily-takeoffable. But AESTHETICALLY, you're going to want to do shit that 'looks sexy' and 'compliments ur b00bz' and 'brings out your eyes', so fer sher, do that, but take my over-sized shirt home for your walk of shame, because it 'accentuates your legs', which is my next point.

Mystery. Mystery is the key here. If I'm looking at the ground, which I often do in search of loose change, my dignity, and uneven walking surfaces, what happens is those legs become arrows. Arrows pointing in the Cardinal Direction 'North', or 'up', or 'toward Heaven'. Which has a lot of cultural significance, and since we don't walk around naked it has taken the place of the 'happy trail', so be aware ladies, be aware. The mystery at the end of the knickerbocked road is what bros're constantly fixated on, so either treat your legs like pathways to your treasure trove, or distract us dudes by making your ass grabbable. Because if your ass looks grabbable, we kind of forget what's between the legs and just want to [but typically don't act on] 'tap/grab that ass'.

Notice grabbing is one of my stronger (if not strongest) impulses. I think the more sexual grabbing that goes on, the less violent grabbing goes on, which is what you're here for, ladies, preventing war.

Feet are for walking, and short girls are hot, so wtf is up with heels? IDK. But if it makes you feel sexy/makes you think your ass/calves look good in them, then do what you do, but the moment you bitch to me about how your feet hurt [which I am aware is already no-no-numero uno neway] I'm going to tell you you're a dumbass for wearing them and that I would have preferred if you didn't click-clack everywhere anyway.

But as far as foot-maintenance sans shoes is concerned...I dunno. I don't have a foot fetish so I wouldn't know about feet. If they're crusty, gross, wash them. If you have a hammertoe, please cover it, it reminds me of my grandma a little. If you dig dudes with foot-fetishes, ask them what they like, because the furthest I'll go is to give you a foot massage, and maybe grab your ankle with my hands and your big toe with my lips. Grab grab grab. But now I think I'm done here.

OH! I forgot! Shaving! Shave. Shave pretty much everything. Don't know if I really have an opinion about this really, or if it's a cultural thing, but a clean shave = smooth sex, in my mind. Won't hold it against you if you don't want to tho.

So what do you think? My standards too low? My fashion-sense non-existent? Are you ladies hungry for compliments and should I tell you how to get them? B/c if you want REAL FASHION ADVICE, then ask for it. I've got tons. We're barely skimming the surface here.





I wish this post were intended to be a fantastic piece of [highly embellished, paternally-charged non-] fiction, but alas, it is just narcissism. Narcissism as usual. Because I am damn proud of three very special people. Three very special people who let me be a dick to them for no particular reason, and who, in return, churn out fantastic pieces of original literature. I do not fucking deserve the honor. I just want to publicly thank the Z.Y.X and, specifically, the narcissistic pot-fiends here at RoRhet, because you/they could be doing important things. But instead, you/they spend hours writing inane, pompous babble. 'Dribble', I think, is the figurative term. So thanks for sticking around, through the bad drama and the non-drama and the serious, serious shit to come. Y'all are a bunch of lazy homos, and I thank you for it.

Oh, and you readers are pretty dope on occasion too.





People have names. Here are some examples of the cock-and-ball-bearing persuasion [in order of most-to-least retarded].

"My name...is Neo!"
"Bond. James Bond."
"Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise."
"I wonder if she meant old Ben Kenobi."
"Forrest, Forrest Gump."

And the following is indirectly addressing those without [a cock and/or balls (and possibly ovaries for that matter)].

There are, as we know, given names, as well as other names, and then there are other other names on top of those. But some people, for one reason or another, prefer to go nameless. Those who simply lack experience in the realm of inventing a false identity and those who do not have the free time to spend on such details are without blame. But creeper motherfuckers with creeper intentions and creeper sensibilities are just motherfucking awesome. Because awesome motherfuckers conceal their identities for awesome motherfucking reasons.

Exhibit A: one awesome motherfucker likes to hide behind the cloak of not-too-subtle anonymity, like a fucking douchebitch [on account of being one], when commenting [nearly exclusively] on La Frere's literary work. And in spite of the brilliance and linguistic versatility exhibited by the author, no matter how cathartic the work may be, said douchebitch does not have the restraint, rationale or respect to comment without insult, or, more appropriately, compliment the author on the strength of her writing.

Now, his/her reasons for this are unclear to me, but I think it is fair to assume there are some emotional parameters. They're most likely evenly distributed between a keen sense of rejection, jealousy, chauvinism, and being a little pansy bitch. But regardless of his/her means of justifying this behavior, the reasons are undoubtedly awesome. And since people are defined by their actions, that would make this person super awesome! So keep being awesome, bro! Because your awesomeness will henceforth be richly and justly rewarded, douchebitch.





If ever there was a hairy man, Halstrom was it. Furred up from head to toe and just, 'JSUS H CHRST THT GUY IS HAIRY!' material. Not like those dudes in Guinness though, not with the fur-faces. Just below record-holding, we'll call his hairiness, but by anyone's standards, he was definitely too much of a sasquatch to raise any lady's woman wood.

But Genie ain't a lady by nobody's standard but her own. Nuh-uh. As far as the world's concerned, she's a sluttastic whore of a paleolithic woman, for whom a caveman would be just the kind she'd show a likin' fer.

"Hit meh!" She yelled at him as she straddled his naked throw rug of a body.
"HIT MEH!" So he slapped her face and she got hotter for him and started riding the man like the hulkybear he was, and he subsequently shot a hot shooter right into her cooter.

Nine months-or-about later a little worm inched its way out of that baby-maker, and wouldn't you know it, the little fucker was born sans hair follicles.





They say things like 'ARRRRGGGHH!' and 'Why, why, why, why, why?'
And they slurp lollipops and eat dark chocolate to make themselves feel better
Lots and lots of chocolate
And it only makes them feel a little worse
And they drink wine and watch their favorite movies
And ask their friends if they want to hang out, but they're all out with their other friends today
And then they find something to zone to, like Bravo
Project Runway, reruns of Next Top Model, and they say things like 'Tim Gunn is my homeboy'
And they bitch about bitches who are married to rich, fat bastards
Pretending it's because those bitches are so bitchy, but fuck all if they're not jealous

They sit around the house, looking for things to fix
Maybe taking things apart that weren't broken just to put them back together
And go outside, even though it's still kind of cold, just to bitch about how cold it is
And they talk on the phone for hours with other people in the same state of existence
But too far away to go see, and they only get themselves more down
And they drink coffee and stay up for 24 hours stints, scouring YouTube for snippets of old Sesame Street Episodes and to re-watch 'Freaks and Geeks'
And eventually stumble upon the next big viral fiasco
And they think about calling old flames to 'just hang out', but they know they couldn't 'just do that'
So they go on their facebooks instead and kinda fuck with them a little
And they try to do other stuff, like hell they try, but they can't





The world is pretty big
And when I say the world, I mean the universe
And when I say the universe, I mean the known universe
But the only thing I'm really aware of
For the most part
Is me

I know that there are seven billion people on the planet
But I only know a couple thousand of them
And of those couple thousand I only kind of care about maybe one hundred
And of those one hundred people I think only ten of them care about me
This isn't very comforting

Of all the people I know and have 'brushed shoulders' with
I have only cried while thinking of two of them
One of them was Ronald Reagan
And I'm kind of vague on the other person
Don't know if it was me or a girl named Buttercuppa
Kinda confused.




I made a podcast.

The audio quality is pretty bad.





Sylvia was not sure if she was particularly attracted to this man. He seemed so childishly naive, but also surprisingly articulate as well as confident. There was a definite air of mystery about him. Her friend, Natalie, insisted on discussing the politics of philosophy with him, despite the fact that she was frustrated and somewhat disgusted by his opinions, but could not help herself from engaging since he constantly replied, very fervently, and with such little rationale. Sylvia continued listening to them argue and soon felt the desire to roll a joint. Without making any sort of gesture to the others, she did this and soon gained the entire group's attention, non-verbally eliciting an excursion outside.

The argument ended, but there was still tension hanging between both parties, so Sylvia finally used her chance to get a word in edgewise and said, 'I think that people should just respect that everyone thinks differently'. This statement was not only relevant to the argument, but also to the circumstances surrounding its perpetuation, and though the man's attention had been fixed on Natalie for most of the night, it suddenly and intensely shifted to Sylvia. They shared the joint she rolled and then one of his cigarettes afterward, but said nothing to each other.

A few days later there was a dance party at a club about two blocks from Sylvia's apartment, and since she had finished studying for her exams and had completed a ten-page paper earlier that day, she and a couple of her neighbors decided to enjoy themselves and dance the night away. Upon arriving at the club, Sylvia immediately ran into the man and he offered to get her a glass of champagne. 'Why thank you. Yes,' she replied and he soon returned with one. Her neighbors, mildly concerned about her well being lingered for a moment, but after seeing the unspoken chemistry between the two, decided it best to leave them alone, and did. Sylvia asked the man if he wanted to dance. He said yes.

The man danced very sensuously and was very responsive to the subtly with which Sylvia moved her hips and limbs and eyes. He touched her where she wanted to be touched. His hands found their way up and down her waist and his cheek found her cheek and his croch found her ass and she was aroused. 'Let's get out of here,' she said to him. 'What?' He couldn't hear her over the music. She said it louder. He smiled. They left.

Back at her apartment Sylvia closed the windows and turned off the lights as the man stood in the hallway, waiting for something. She spread herself out on her couch and he came over to her. Propping himself against the back of the seat, he kissed her. It wasn't long before every inch of her naked body had felt his lips against them and she wanted him inside of her. He struggled pathetically with the condom. She was on birth control and was too frustrated to give a shit. 'You don't have any STDs do you?' She asked him, anxiously. 'No,' He said, and she sort of believed him. 'Just don't come inside of me'.

All the time he had wasted trying to get the condom on had softened him up, so she started giving him a blow job. Finally, he was hard enough to give her what she wanted, and so she took it, and took it, and it sent shivers up her spine and fuck! She loved it. She came with her eyes shut tight, gripping at the couch for dear life, and God, it had been so long since she'd felt this good, she thought to herself. The man was having trouble keeping his erection after she came so she blew him again, but to no avail. It was late, they were both tired and she had class in the early afternoon, so they slept.

A couple of hours later, he woke her to tell her he was leaving. 'I'm not up for anything serious,' she said to him, 'but if you want to do this again some time...'. 'Okay.' He said. She fell back to sleep as he was getting dressed.

The man never called Sylvia again. He never called.





When I was younger I got my hand X-rayed
And the doctor predicted that I would grow to be 6'2" to 6'4"
It was like a magic trick.
I was a little disappointed when I stopped growing
And I kind of blamed the doctor for my unhappiness

My last girlfriend was the same height as me
And it made sex difficult
Because I like tossing short girls around
And making their bodies do what I imagine in my head would be fun for them.
I would rather not have sex than witness a fake orgasm,
Because they make me feel like I'm being pitied or maybe insulted somehow

In elementary school I had a crush on a girl whose family were Jehovah's Witnesses
And she didn't say the 'Pledge of Allegiance'.
Elementary School Me thought that this was strange and attractive,
Though I religiously stood, palm to heart, and joined in every time,
I always wanted to stand apathetically with her, and maybe smirk and wink
And mouth the words 'I'm a rebel too, darlin''

I live with a family of Evangelical Christians
And they speak in tongues and cry loudly during church
And there are hundreds of them that all cry together
And believe in things
All while I'm tossing short girls around
And making their bodies do what I imagine in my head would be fun.




Be forewarned. This post is a novella.


By Etienne Michel Garat

Most people, in this world of true believers, base their religious ideals on what they consider to be rock solid foundations. Investigating the spoken teachings, writings, and histories of their preferred deities, and ultimately providing the grounds for investing their time, money, and supernatural essence, completely, into their worship. I, however, have committed the serial transgression of forfeiting all mythologies, historical facts, and experiences in order to put the entirety of my faith into the one pantheon that wanes and waxes more readily than the moon. The one brand of deity that itself knows not the answer to the quintessential question, “why”. The perfect being, whose wrath tends to rain down in times of blessing, and whose choice in blessing will eternally perplex the minds of men:

The Female Sex.

And Other Signs That You’re Subconsciously Suicidal


The first and most influential goddess in my pantheon is Naomi Garat. She is the matron of health and longevity, the goddess of birth and renewal, the source of all that is good and sensible. Consequently, the first immaculate gem of wisdom she graced me with was the following:

“You need to get this thing out of me!”

I suppose the most important piece of information regarding Naomi, is that she is my mother.

I first began my particular religious practice inside an urban maternity ward, elegantly decorated with a tapestry of floral wallpaper and hemmed with a winding construction of morning lilies, accentuating the treasures borne within. It was here that Naomi and I were first formally introduced, and immediately she imprinted on my mind the image of grace and beauty that lingers in my subconscious to this day. She christened me with a traditional name, as is the custom of folk of French-Caribbean descent: Etienne, “crowned one”, promising me a grand and royal future. And after this holy act, she and her subordinate male counterpart escorted me to their temple of residence and graced me with the gifts of love and parental affection. Within two years another follower joined my and my father’s small congregation, a brother, named Gilliam.

Then disaster struck.

My father died unexpectedly, three months into Naomi’s third pregnancy. She, however, rebounded from this loss with supernatural elegance and immediately took over my father’s place as breadwinner. With the force of a lioness on the prowl she and her two sisters took on the gruesomely competitive world of Tupperware sales.

For all six months leading up to my sister’s birth she took my brother and I from housewife to housewife, suburban playground to suburban playground, Tupperware party to Tupperware party, spreading the gospel of compact food storage wherever she went, and she was nothing but brilliant at it. Seeing this goddess rapidly ascend the sales pyramid and provide our broken family with a so perfect a reconstruction plan was all that I needed to reaffirm the truth that was placed in my mind at birth: my mother is a goddess. But something happened that would shake my faith forever.

My sister’s difficult birth foreshadowed a lesson in disillusionment unparalleled by any event in contemporary religious history. Postpartum depression gripped Naomi like a raptor’s talons grip helpless prey, and it was my brother and I who felt the flesh-shredding, bone-crushing force of it. Naomi stopped working, neglected her temple, her congregation, and in a matter of months, our goddess fell from grace and tore down that flowery veil we stood in utter awe before. Needless to say, our young minds could not comprehend why, nor bear the overwhelming pressure of being forsaken in such a way.

Our aunts were our only source of solace for those months, and there was little they could do to rebuild our previous perceptions among the looming, oppressive aura about the house and family. But no force as strong as the illusion of perfection can be held at bay for long.


My second Goddess embodies the concept of grace in victory. She inspires the deepest desire in me to crush my every enemy, to retain my integrity through tireless effort, endless commitment to excellence, and a healthy addiction to her personal drug of choice, adrenaline. She is the infallible, Camille Asahi.

Shortly after Naomi’s recovery, the effects of the time and money lost to her depression began to take their toll. The house was in a state of degeneration unlike any other time during our residence there. Cleaning had to be done. The portion of the funds that Naomi’s sisters’ sales were supplying could not sustain the colossal appetites and various other needs particular to a single mother and three young children. Inevitably, Naomi would have to go back to work. But taking a baby with her to her numerous functions and meetings was out of the question. All that could be done was to hire a housekeeper to watch the three of us.

I will never forget the day Camille walked through our door. It was late spring and she wore a white cotton summer dress with embroidered pink roses rolling across the base. I remember that dress distinctly because when she reached out to my brother and I for us to give her a friendly greeting, that was the first thing we saw and felt. It was like embracing a new mother; undoubtedly it was embracing New Religion.

She was nineteen when she came to us. A third generation Japanese beauty with the spirit of a fox, hidden behind the mask of cheerfulness and stoic determination which, much like Naomi’s resilience, completely captivated my brother and I. For little pay she looked after us and cleaned while taking online college courses. But it was in her off time that she taught us the way of Asahi.

I had gotten a videogame system for my birthday that year and struggled with little success to beat the first level. Every day just before my nap I would sit in front of the television and tap at the controller until my thumbs were sore, but I was absolutely incapable of making any headway. One day Camille was taking a break and asked if she could try. I agreed to it, and to my absolute astonishment, she was superb.

In two weeks she had beaten the entire game and was making her way through the mini games and collecting all of the secret items. I sat between her crossed legs and saw first-hand her unparalleled comprehension of the intricate dynamics of virtual strategy. Her omnipotence was manifested on the television screen before me, and an admiration like no other gripped the deepest part of my soul.

Soon my brother and I were beseeching the goddess, Naomi, begging her to buy new games for us, and she obliged. Every weekday for a year-and-a-half we would congregate in the den and worship the almighty Camille, sing her praises and testifying at the dinner table about each little victory she achieved. Each level completed, each upgrade acquired, each game beaten was a miracle our goddess performed, was a precept she had taught us. They were the reason we woke up each morning. The reason the air tasted so sweet. How, then, did we feel that haunting Wednesday when a glaring, Haitian harpy met us at the door, claiming to be the new housekeeper?

“What the hell happened to Camille!” I demanded.
“Hey! Watch your language, young man!” she retorted. “That little prostitute went and got her pretty little Asian derrière pregnant!”
“Don’t talk about Camille that wa…what!”

Apparently, Camille had a boyfriend who lived down the street and every day after blowing our minds with her amazing skills, she would go over to his house and blow him, show him, and know him, in the unprotected biblical sense. She had been showing for a few weeks, but it was only the day before that Naomi had confronted her about it. Concealing that kind of thing from the goddess of birth and renewal is dangerous business. So, she was dishonorably discharged and replaced by an old hag from the islands.

Once again, biological chemistry crushed my dreams, whatever those may have been. However I was fortunate enough to escape the torture my siblings were subject to at the hand of the Harpy des Caraïbes, on account of the new place of worship I was concurrently enrolled in: Oakcrest Elementary School, where I would encounter the third illustrious deity of my pantheon.


The goddess of the unknown, inspirer of the pursuit of knowledge and academic inquiry, keeper of all that is treasured and secret: the mysterious, Vatara Wheeler.

Experience plainly shows us that lack of motivation is generally what keeps most of humanity from reaching full potentiality, however many people are accomplishing minor success in their daily lives by labeling points of inspiration. In many cases inspiration is drawn from the mysteries of life and things like destiny and a better future, despite the bleak realities of both. But the question I pose to you is what future does a prepubescent child dream of? What motivates them to do better? To be successful? The simple answer is nothing. To children life is the now and is consumed by immediate gratification. That is exactly why the motivation and determination of a forthcoming parent is usually what it takes to help create a good foundation for a child with no prospects.

I, however, did not have this luxury. Every morning I woke to watch my mother strut stiffly off to work. I boarded the very bus my housekeeper exited, and at night I slept soundly while that old Haitian harpy finished cleaning up after my siblings. So in elementary school I was prematurely confronted with the trauma of contemplating long-term consequences and motivation based on the parameters that my world view dictated would usher me into paradise: marriage. And my science teacher, Mr. Hollows was married, so who better to talk to?

“I have a dilemma.”
“What is it?”
“I want to get married.”
He chuckled, “No you don’t.”
“I know I do.”
“Really?” he said warily, “When?”
“And who is the girl?”
“One of your students.”
“Are the feelings mutual?”
“She doesn’t know I exist.”
“Oh, well that sounds like a match made in heaven.”
“Yeah, wait, what?”
“Look, Etienne, marriage is the end-all-be-all. Once you get married, that’s it, your life’s over.”
“Sounds like my cup of tea. But that doesn’t solve my problem.”
“Endless devotion, painstaking work, and you can’t go around having affairs,” he said with a look of distant regret.
“What’s an affair?”
“Look Etienne, if you really like this girl you’ve got to get her attention by doing things that she will be attracted to.”
“She’s kind of an introvert, a recluse.”
“How do you know those words but not ‘affair’?”
“So if I do well in school will that get her attention!?”
“Sure, Etienne, that'll probably do it.”

I got straight A’s that year, but Vatara Wheeler still didn’t seem to notice a thing. But as long as I was at Oakcrest, getting her to marry me was my primary motivation. And every day when I saw Vatara, always by herself, in the halls, at lunch or at recess in that plaid jumper, walking on air the way she did, eating her homemade lunch like an angel must eat, or picking flowers, like a solitary nymph in a garden, the goddess of mystery inspired my every academic pursuit.

Late in fifth grade Naomi’s father died and I attended the first funeral since my father’s. Everything about it was bleak. The turf at the cemetery sunk under my every step, and given the amount of mourners in attendance, I’m not quite sure if the soft earth was because of the rain or because of the amount of crying that was going on. My eyes were fixed on the casket that concealed my grandfather’s lifeless body and suddenly, I realized that marriage was not the end-all-be-all, it was just another chapter in life, and there must be something even more elusive, more complete that directly preceded the unknown. I thought about what it would be like when I died.

“Here.” Vatara said, handing me a white lily.
“Thanks.” I replied.

Wait. Vatara Wheeler. What was she doing here? Why did she hand me, a flower? Then I realized that all the people to my left were lining up before the open grave to pay last respects. I watched them for a moment, each bursting at their glandular seams as they laid eyes on the casket, then I turned back to Vatara and saw that she had glided away, down the row of people, disappearing into an ocean of jet black. Just as the mystery and misery in my conflicted heart had reached a strange, bleak precipice my turn to pay respects had come, so I mindlessly followed Naomi to her father’s final resting place. As I peered down and was on the verge of throwing my lily in, I hesitated. This is my flower. A goddess gave it to me, and it means something.

“Etienne, put it on top of Paw-paw’s casket. Come on baby, I know it’s hard. Just toss it in.” My mother said with her battle-hardened gaze. She was just going through the motions, while hundreds of others were genuinely grieving, she was genuinely stone. And for my part, I was genuinely confused, and inferior both to tradition and the will of my mother. She grabbed my hand.

“No! It’s mine!” I cried.

She wrenched the flower from my clinched fist and tossed it, bleakly, into the pit. I watched in pain as the flower fell, my shaking hand reaching out to it but all that I caught was a glance, the lily was still suspended in mid-air and I witnessed in what seemed to be super slow-motion, Vatara setting herself neatly beside the morticians. Up on the hill, hands clasped in front of them, each wearing that same stoic expression that Vatara always wore. As the flower hit the casket, the truth hit me, my hand recoiled and I uttered an incredulous no.

When I realized that I had spent the last four years of my life pining after a girl destined to take up the family business of burying people, a sort of repulsive rush pulsed through my veins, and I realized that that really was not something I wanted. This time, the biological process and human ritual that thwarted me was death and burial, in stark contrast to the sex and birth of my previous encounters. Remarkable. What then can a disillusioned youth do to cope with such trauma? What change must occur to reestablish a conscious reason for being? Really, the answer is quite simple: puberty.


The goddess of romance and seduction, natural beauty and inherent emotion manipulation skill. She is hot, hot, hot, and at the time of reverence, she happened to be fourteen years old.

“Ewww gross!” She said during our first encounter. “At Jamie’s party last night, Marcus totally tried to kiss me, but he’s a complete douche. I told him abso-fucking-lutely not!”
“Alejandra, shut the fuck up, you know you totally blew him in the broom closet.”
“So the fuck what, Maureen!? His dick was way cleaner than the inside of his mouth, I assure you.”

Now, myth is always a factor when discussing theology and religion. No deity is without his or her image-boosting tales of triumph and humanizing tale of compromise. What tale then, can be told about my dear goddess, Alejandra Cloacina?

Well, Maureen would say, “She’s a fucking slut, and she’ll hop on any dick that’ll get hard for her!”
But wait, story of triumph first, shameless bashing, later.
On August 27th, my first day of eight grade, the metro-area reporters were swarming.

“William T. Armstrong, Quarterback for the TLU Titans has been arrested on multiple sex-offense charges coming from the D.A.’s office, after he made a DVD of himself having sex with a fourteen year old girl. Now we go to Pam Alameda, on location at the apartment where Mr. Armstrong’s arrest is currently underway, Pam?”
“Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Armstrong, what do you have to say about your alleged sexual relations with a junior high school-aged girl?”
“I don’t give a shit how long they put me away for, man.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“I mean, I can die a happy man now.”

He said this with contentment rather than mania in his voice.

“It was so worth it.”
“What was?”
“What else? The sex.”

Seductress of seductresses, beast from the pit yet babe in the cradle. Her heart was an urn overflowing with the scorched adolescent fantasies that all boys have during that awkwardly quasi-pubescent phase known in America as junior high school. Her mother was an Italian porn star, her father, some claimed to he was the big double-H himself, but regardless of the rumors, the one fact I can give you is that she was the first girl I ever dreamt about, and it was a good dream. My only question is, why the hell didn’t she deflower me?

As we sat on her couch watching the arrest via television, her mother laughed hysterically in the background on the phone with her agent. Alejandra, or Allez Ici, as I had dubbed her the way that I dub things, metaphorically, sat on my lap in her signature short skirt and lily-patterned bikini top, reminiscing about how ridiculously unfulfilling Monsieur Armstrong was in bed. Her words were as sweet as anything, but my boner was the size of the state of California, and to my disgrace I didn’t hear a single one.

Her goal was to have one million men under her belt, literally, before menopause. At fourteen, she was well into the hundreds, and by anyone’s standard, that is incredibly over-sexed. Since I was impeccably under-sexed at that point, however, and with her being a gracious deity and all, she did not want to put me through the trauma of losing my virginity and having inferior sex for the rest of my life. So I was, in the parlance of our times, her friend, instead of a true minister of the gospel.

“Do you know what I’m doing Etienne?” She asked in the way she does, seductively.
“No, Allez Ici. What the hell are you doing to me?”
“I’m saving the best for last.”

For a short time I did find some odd sense of comfort in this, because I was sure the goddess would reach her goal long before anyone expected and usher me into the golden light of ethereal pleasure. But it is truly a sad day in heaven when the infallible is contradicted. Though, to be fair to the faith, it comes as a surprise to everyone when a nymphomaniac falls in love. Especially when the subsequent effects are an adherence to a lifetime of monogamous sexual practices pursued in earnest, and earnest comparable only to the veracity with which she had previously embraced her addiction. But her shift was absolute, my admiration for her lost, and my heart, grievously prepared for a new icon to prostrate myself before, or, preferably, on top of.


She does not have the pristine figure of a celestial being. She does not bear the harsh burden of being voluptuous or extravagant. She is simply the goddess of absolute purity, and, to this day, the bane of my existence.

Maria Iglesia came from a devoutly religious family, the seventh of thirteen siblings, and she seemed to be, by far the most reserved of the lot at first glance. After the incomparably disappointing incident with Allez Ici, I was pretty much desperate for anything, so it seemed as though she had heard my prayer and sought me out. We had religion class together, year two of high school, and with the vast differences between our religious ideologies, we inevitably clashed. She saw herself as the last defense of orthodoxy against the evils of sex, drugs, and rock in roll as far as the vast realm of high school was concerned, while I was simply a connoisseur of the perfect and the perfectly strange feminine qualities of the world.

After I got past her heavily guarded belief filter we began to debate our different perceptions of health, addiction, tradition, revolution, and the acts of righteousness and damnable deeds of our two worldviews, and how they related and contrasted. And we eventually realized, we both were, essentially, worshiping things that might not actually exist, and on that basis, we decided to start dating.

Homecoming rolled around and it took our collective efforts a solid week to convince her parents that we would not “kiss in public, make love in the bathroom or, God forbid, dance the way you kids do these days”, and they insisted that I go through the traditional motions of purchasing a boutonnière and corsage, and I went the extra distance and bought the parents a bouquet for their dining room, composed completely of flowers gilded with platonic symbolism, having made the correct assumption that her mother would research them to find out if the universe would tell the tale of my true intentions with her daughter.

Of course, every message conveyed was contradicted by our actions.

She freaked the shit out of me on the dance floor that night and we made out in the corner for half-an-hour before she dragged me to the bathroom and opened the pearly gates, synchronizing our essences on that ultimate celestial plane. It was INCREDIBLE with all capitals, and I felt like I had truly reached the next stage of existence, entering a richer world, my sins cleansed, my scars healed, and my soul partaking of the sensational meal my deity had materialized solely for my consumption.

By fourteen my brother was similarly an appreciator of all things heavenly and female, but unfortunately the crowd he ran with worked in perfect discord with my ideals. They were sociopaths, cult-starters, and drug addicts-in-training, and he fell for their antics, F sharp, A and C natural.

He was a musician, and a damn good one, slipping seamlessly into the world of popular rhythm and blues. At fourteen his band opened for a band whose name, sadly escapes me at the moment, but I assure you, they are ridiculously famous. And in two years he came a long way, ending up as a solo bass guitar act that traveled the country.

I, on the other hand, was confined to our hometown, and because of Maria, had no desire to leave. But eventually my brother’s success became a source of jealous frustration. My brother had become, almost overnight, the primary provider for my family. My mother worshiped him, my sister idolized him and even had the audacity to ask why I didn’t do anything with myself like Gilliam did.

So Maria and I got together and made an effort to decide for what kind of occupation should I study in college.

“What about a warlord with delusions of fascist takeover?” She suggested.
“I’m not really good at waging war on anything but my own psyche, honestly.”
“What about your war against America’s misconceptions about the lead content in Azerbaijani tap water?”
“Yeah, well look how well that’s going, most Americans don’t even know what Azerbaijan is.”
“You could always become a wine taster.”
“But I don’t drink anything but merlots, and shitty ones at that.”
“Well you could be an international authority on shitty merlots.”
“Maria, these are all way too obscure. I need something I can do now and help build a future off of.”
“But you don’t have any natural skill.”
“I have an eye for beautiful women, that could be considered a skill.”
“Yeah, well for the time being, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t look at any beautiful women. It’s hard enough for me in daily life without you doing it professionally.”
“I’ve got it. How about I become a therapist for any and all men who insist on putting pussy on a pedestal.”
“I don’t think you’d be the best candidate for that.”
“Why not, I’ve had enough experience. I’m like the poster boy for successful recovery. Right?”
“Are you kidding me, Etienne? You still worship me.”
“What do you mean?”
“How long have you been here?”
“What? You mean in suburbia? All my life.”
“No I mean here at my house, today.”
“I dunno, seven or eight hours.”
“What day of the week is it?”
“Why are you here?”
“Because you’re not feeling well and I want to take care of you.”
“How many siblings do I have who are out of school and at home today?”
“So why are you missing school?”

I had no answer to this question and suddenly I realized that I was committing one of my main damnable acts: abuse. Now, even though this was not physical abuse of the usual kind, me keeping her from resting, and hurting our future by not bettering myself through education, was a subversive way of potentially ruining our life as I knew itl. So, like any of the damned, I tried to cover my ass and lie to get into heaven.

“I’m here, trying to show you I care. Can’t you appreciate that, even a little bit?”
“Actually, I could, if you meant it. But, Etienne, you don’t.”
“Go home, Etienne, or even better, go to school. Learn something about yourself.”

There was a long pause after this, and in it I sank like a rock, a rock that had been floating on the surface of a long and ethereal ocean until fear devoured faith and the glistening surface gave way. And then she said it.

“Etienne, you know I’m just kidding, don’t you?”
“What?” Bitch.

Worship is a funny practice. It’s a submissive act in its essence, but the majority of its practitioners hope that through it they are finding more of a oneness with the object of their admiration, rather than complete humiliation by offering up their soul to a malevolent dictator. So when Maria threw me for a loop with her jab, stab, and hug-love routine, I realized she was too right in one respect and not so much in others, and I personally preferred not to be toyed with. So in the spirit of not being toyed with, I left for college, without a word to her or anybody.

With no object of admiration to inspire any pursuit besides running away from my last one, I withdrew deep into my own mind and began systematically committing suicide. I started doing sixblade, the local drug of choice, and avoided studying, socializing and anything that seemed at all constructive, like it was the plague.

Little did I know, what I really wanted was to find someone on my same plane of existence, someone just as concerned about me as I was about them. Subconsciously, I decided that that would never happen to me, and that I was in desperate need of a wake up call so I could get out and smell the gruesome roses, the roses that were associated with life in general, real life, and not the wonderful world of women. But unfortunately for me, I was born and bred on the stuff, and was highly ill equipped to adapt.


The goddess of wisdom.

On April 1st, as if on cue, Iris Kurfokski laughed her way into my life. I was sitting in the back of a theater on campus, apathetically watching a documentary on the evils of the lard extraction industry, and how they were directly related to the extinction of the short spider orchid, when she walked in and sat two rows in front of me, slightly to my left. There was really nothing to laugh at, but we were both tickled immensely by the film, she being the more vocal of the two. When, at the climax she got up to use the bathroom, she looked back and noticed me, and I was smiling, obviously more amused than was normal.

“You do sixblade, right?” She said, catching me slightly off guard.
“Why? You a nark?” I suspiciously inquired.
“No, I just recognized you from one of the Chambers twins’ parties. You were the guy carrying the flowers, right? You want to come outside for a sesh?”
Now when I suspect sex as a possible outcome for a sixblade rendezvous the obvious answer is “yes, I will join you” but for some reason I hesitated with this girl.
“Sixblade? Out in front of a movie theater?”
“Of course not. One of these exits goes out to a back alley.”
“So, you coming?”
“Um…I guess.”

So we stepped out back and the entire time I nervously awaited my next sleazy sexual encounter. But somehow we started legitimately talking, and the conversation oddly enough ended up being about her boyfriend, who she was so in love with, and how her college experience wouldn’t have been the same if she hadn’t met and basically seduced him into the sack.

Eventually I got around to mentioning my personal religious practices, and instead of the usual response, which is along the lines of, “what are you, some kind of twisted Casanova?” she said, “you know, I was a lot like you when I was your age”.

I personally could not imagine how this could be so. Male human beings are the least healthy of all creatures on the earth, we kill ourselves intentionally, and unless we’re fighting for a woman or a child, we are essentially cowards. We’re anything but mysterious, we do not see sex as an art form, and we are all-in-all, to our cores, evil. Why the fuck would any girl worship us?

“That, is exactly why.” She said to the argument I didn’t realize I had verbalized. “I adored every terrible little thing about them. Every kind of vice the guys in my life specialized in, I loved. My father was a chef, a drunk, and a glutton, and a damn good at it. My childhood piano teacher would rather acclimate me to the world of pedophilia than to the world of music. My elementary school crush was the school bully, in junior high, I dated a highschooler, in high school I slept with the entire football team, and after that, I just got tired of myself. I wanted something better, something worth the time and the work, and that’s when I met Jimmy. He was the sweetest guy around, an academic powerhouse, and probably the weirdest and most interesting person I had met up to that point. And I found out, the only way I could get to him was to relentlessly seduce him. It took me weeks, I was about to give up, and you know how I knew I had him?”
“How?” I inquired.
“Well I gave him a surprise visit in his dorm room one night, and he was too nice to not let me in. We talked for a bit, with him trying to focus on his studies and me trying to focus on him, and after a while, I noticed he hadn’t smiled or laughed since I came in, so I told him a joke.”
“What was the joke?”
“How do you know when video games have driven you insane?”
“When you sue a friend for stealing a life. That is, if you have either in the first place.”
“That’s not really that funny.”
“Well, to you and me, maybe not, but he loves video games and thought it was hilarious. At first I started laughing to get him rolling, then he really started cracking up, then I really started cracking up. In fact he laughed so much he farted, and then I laughed so much at him that I peed myself a little, and well, the rest is history.”
“I know, right? But you know what, Etienne, most girls you’re interested in are just as fucked up as I am, and the truth is, it will take them some time to realize that what they need and should want is a guy like you. And if you’re the kind of guy you are, and that’s the kind of girl your soul mate is, then it’s just going to take some time. So go, be yourself, and some day soon, you’ll find a girl who’s just crazy about you, and you have to be willing to be crazy about her. Kay?”
“I really didn’t know I needed counseling for this.”
“Well, you don't anymore. Um, do you have anymore sixblade on you?"


The One Goddess.

I majored and got a BSA in international dragonology, at the recommendation of dear Iris, in order to escape those out-of-character bad-boy stigmas I was developing, while secretly becoming more and more pessimistic about my beliefs.

I simply did not have the knack for womanizing, drug abuse, or the generally hateful disposition towards humanity that is necessary for breeding a successful manwhore. So I remained celibate throughout the remainder of college and essentially became a nerd for all that pertained to dragons. European, East-Asian, Native-American, even the lonely three that roamed the African continent, I knew everything there was to know about them. And so whenever anyone writing a book, screenplay, performing a bogus archaeological dig, or simply a fellow nerd like myself, approached and had a question to ask, I simply had to dig through the nether regions of my mind and regurgitate some fact, while actually, within the nether regions of my body, I was tormented by the fact that I was waiting for someone to come along and say, “wow, you know everything about dragons? Let’s have sex”.

Dreams do not come true, and there is no such thing as the perfect woman, was my final conclusion about life, and eventually I resorted to ignoring every e-mail, telephone and house call I got. The days would pass, my mind would numb more and more until I lost any sense of time. After about three months I decided to burn every piece of dragon literature I owned. That pursuit was just a frivolous way of trying to cover up the frustration. After about six months, when no goddess came to save me, I finally broke down.

I’m now sitting at my Clem, typing what, in these final, lucid moments, I have deemed worthy of publication. The names have not been changed, and every moment recalled is to the best of my memory. My last goddess, is, like the rest, a glorified version of herself. Some call her the end, some call her nothing, I call her Clara Murphy. After a long and arduous journey through the sands of time, I find myself here, before her, prepared to embrace the only destiny true for everyone. Fear of her is the only thing that kept me going this far, and now I realize, the only way to unite, truly, with the object of my worship, is to embrace fear, to embrace the unknown, to embrace eternal clarity, while my mind remains committed to only these six, and no more.

No matter what I said or did in the past, no matter how I was perceived by my peers, I promise, you, I was just like them.






ABSTERSION n. the act of wiping clean; a cleansing; a purging.

I'm absterging love from my vocabulary. I'm losing myself in losing myself. Romau will be an acknowledged and transient novelty.

The slate is clean.





Love. What is it? Well from my highly biased but generally accepted opinion, 'the lolves' is a feeling of inherent attachment and a deep level of commitment to a person. Now I understand that the definition varies drastically when you get into specifics/psychology/culture, but hear me out because I'm talking from the perspective of a cynical romantic who's heartbroken and doesn't 'get why she's not that into me', etc., etc....

So most people are practical and are interested in their own survival on some level. For example, if you are a person who needs food in order to survive, typically when you are hungry and know of a means to feed yourself, you'll do it, whether it be 'get a job', 'ask your parents/friends/a bank to loan you some money', or 'beg'. Now I am in the unfortunate and unique position that I do not need food in order to survive, because I don't believe in survival. Survival is an absurd and highly abstract concept to me. Survival can go fuck itself. I prefer 'luv'.

Now this is a heavy stance to take on my existence, because it makes me an 'irrational person', but I feel like most people take on particularly ridiculous stances concerning most if not all 'important' things, so I'm decidedly different in a not-so-different way. I kinda like writing, I kinda like eating, I kinda like listening to/making music, but I kinda become a little piece of shit-nothing when I'm alone. I don't know why this is. I think I understand some fundamental psychological parameters for why my brain strung certain nerve clusters together and allowed me to draw certain conclusions, but I have an extremely limited understanding of the world and therefore have chosen not to question it, 'the world'.

But I do question the women in my life who say 'you don't really love me. you're in love with the idea of me'. WHAT. THE. FUCK. I don't tell women I'm not willing to live for that 'I'm in love' with them. Now excuse me for asking, but If I'm not in love with you, then who the fuck in the world is in love with anybody? Are we all just abstractions bouncing around in each other's heads? The answer to that question is yes. Yes we are. So would you please not tell me after I spent days of my life worrying/wondering about, laughing with, holding and never wanting to let go of, TRYING MY DAMNEDEST TO BE A DECENT PERSON FOR, and could have easily taken a toaster to the bathtub in order to avoid the trauma of putting up with, that I'm enamored with an 'idea of you'.

When we were together I was holding off on being a complete fucktard/douchebag/apathetic asshole as a gesture to show that I wanted you. Sorry that that's not what chicks are into. Sorry that I'm only an asshole to chicks I don't give two shits about, but, fuck. Soooooo over it now.


Also, concerning being 'intense' in a relationship: I've heard of people who have mutilated themselves, beaten their gfs/wives, and lied extensively to themselves and others all in the name of 'lurve'. I don't think I was that intense. I was mostly just honest.




I fell out of love. Or she did with me I think. Then I got really depressed. I started hanging out with interesting people and getting really drunk. I'm not 21, so I was doing this illegally. Then I met La Frere, and for four hours on a very cold night in Washington D.C. we were angels. We were superior to everything. We pretended that we weren't 'hipsters'. It was really amazing/exciting/self-degrading because I think we fell in love with each other a little that night. Then we both got scared about what we were getting into. I have a problem with projecting my thoughts/expectations on other people. She might not have felt anything, she might not have been scared, but I know that she was surprised by something, and that made me feel nice that I surprised her.

Then, or maybe before that happened, I reconnected with Floyd, who I met in Los Angeles, and who I thought was very awkward because he didn't talk much and was Canadian. But he was friends with one of my favorite musician's girlfriend at the time in LA, and was a photographer, so I kinda passed him off as a bit of a summertime novelty personality. I don't think we really 'connected' during this trip, but I saw him on facebook the next day and friended him anyway. I don't remember very clearly how we 'reconnected'. I think I left a comment on a photograph or something and it was 'meaningful' to him or we started a 'conversation' on the internet that branched out into a philosophical discussion. I had just broken up with a very pretty girl, like I said, and so I found it cathartic to discuss 'love' and 'relationships' with Floyd, and I soon found out he had not only been dealing with a similar situation, but had once dated a girl with the same name as the girl I had just broken up with.

So we started a blog. And now you're reading it. And La Frere's here too. And so is my friend from high school, Oracular Spectacular. They kind of 'mean more to me' than my family sometimes.

That girl and I got back together for a little bit. But then she left me, so my self-esteem went down pretty low and I felt vengeful. That's part of the reason the blog stopped for a while. But we're kind of back now.