I know there’s a thing trapped inside you that wants to eat you alive, a cancer with teeth that feeds on your heart and shits in your brain.

Have you ever thought about letting it off the leash? Just to see what it would do?

Because I have.

Number of times per week she tells me “that’s not helping!”: at least five.

Number of times per week I’m actually trying to help: something close to zero.

Mind Over Things That Don’t Matter

It’s ever a challenge, to be good enough at being nothing. To purge yourself of the fanciful delusion that your existence should be more than simply existing. To excise from your bloated, diseased expectations all sense of value, of purpose, of desert. To burn away everything within you that isn’t a desperate, grasping hole of singular and base purpose.

But with determination and a hateful cock, anything is possible.

A taste of a piece coming in the new year:

He’s got some tools, Daddy. I don’t know where he got them; I don’t even know if he’s washed them. He’s smart enough to realize he should, but that doesn’t mean he cares. I mean, he cares a lot, but mostly… mostly about horrible things.

Cranky Old Man Shit: The Boys

I’ve been seeing an uptick in male readers of late, which is something that always gives me pause. It probably seems like I talk about “writing for women” just to emphasize my preference for pussy, but it’s more than that.

I can trust grown women to read this stuff… women whose lives have taught them to see through my sleight of hand and appreciate the show all the same. I know what I’m writing is messed up, they know they’re messed up for enjoying it, and that mutual understanding provides (dare I say it? I do!) a safe space to unpack and explore a lot of the psychosexual garbage in our heads.

But guys? Like George Costanza and the squirrels, I have no deal with them. And as I click through some of their blogs, I’m not optimistic of ever reaching one. There’s a whole lotta stupidity out there, and while I block the worst of it, I’d rather see people get their shit together.

So if by some chance you are a genuine young man who doesn’t want to be a complete douchebag that makes everyone cringe, but you’re not 100% sure of how to avoid that fate, please try to bear the following incomplete list in mind.

Your dick is not special.
Your dick therefore does not make you special.
Strangers on the internet do not want to see your dick, nor watch you personify it through the inept kabuki of despair you call flirting.
Like my role model Charles Barkley, I am not your role model. There is nothing about where I am that is worth what it took to get here. What you’re looking at is “best of a bad situation” territory; the fact that a crazy number of chicks live here with me should probably make you sad rather than excited.
Some girls on Tumblr are comfortable with me captioning their photos, or replying salaciously, disdainfully, and paternally to their writing. You are not me. (This is a feature, not a bug.) You want to say nasty things to hot girls and be appreciated for it? Invest some time in establishing yourself as a known, predictable quantity whose appearance in someone’s inbox is a pleasant surprise and not just another cold call from an unknown erection.

There. I’ve done my good deed for the year.

Fun Date Idea

We have a wonderful evening together, doing everything you love to do, and as we fall together into bed in the wee hours, you tell me through ecstatic giggles that it’s been the best night of your life.

Then I wrap a belt around your neck and ask if you’d like to go out on a high note.

I don’t want to be the one to wreck your world, but I will damned sure chase you through the rubble.

To this day, I’m amazed at the number of Canadians who follow me.

Who knew America’s Hat was hiding so many greasy little secrets?

I just saw someone getting shamed for reblogging me. And I’ll be honest with you: I like when a girl takes a hit in my name. Nothing makes a man feel more like a god than a woman who subjects herself to scorn in praise of him.¹ That’s damned sexy girling, that is.

But wow, it is bizarre watching someone espouse feminism while lambasting a woman for something a man wrote.

Incredibly hot, but still bizarre.

Just imagine how Kevin Federline must have felt during the salad days. ↩

A Guide To Cranky Old Men

A lot of you want my attention. Very few of you have a clue how to get it, much less keep it. So here is a new installment of quick pro-tips that may (or may not) help you navigate into my orbit.

Don’t be scared. You already know I’m going to hurt you, and if things go well, it’ll happen quite often. The more we trust one another, the worse it’s going to get. You even know how I’m going to hurt you: I’m going to take advantage of your weakness. And who knows your weakness better than you? Exactly. If you look deep inside, you can already see the worst things to come… so why be frightened?
Understand that I don’t need you. I may like you. I may grow to adore you. I could even –in my misguided way— depend upon you. But you will always be the most disposable thing in my world. Act accordingly.
Use your fucking blog to say something. Even if that “something” is just “Hey everyone, look at my ass!” I don’t want to wade through a wall of reblogs of random shit that someone else created… I want to see you, ya dumb bitch. And you want to be seen, right?
Remember that you ultimately don’t matter. You’re only of interest to me if you can inspire me. That’s your job. That’s your purpose. If you can’t do it, then you’re fundamentally worthless. Perhaps I’ll end up attached to you and want you around for additional reasons, but the baseline understanding is this: be good for me, or begone.
Your boobs are not that great. Well, okay, some of them are actually outstanding. But at this point, tit pics are to me as dick pics are to you. Show me the parts of you that you didn’t flash to every frat boy and horny dad on Chatroulette back in 2009. I’d rather see your outfit of the day than one more smartphone nipple snap.
Keep your chin up. If I don’t care for your body, or your face, or your voice, or your thoughts, it doesn’t mean you’re ugly. It just means you’re ugly to me. Change my mind. Change yourself. Be better.