sperm and pants

andy pink, high north, korea —

cigarettes have involved themselves in my life to such a degree that i take time thinking about my checking account and my newport purchases. cigarettes always come first. there will always be free water. there will probably be a day when water is no longer free. there will be “natural water” (which will be like some kind of unmarketed generic free brand) that falls from the sky, but we will be resigned to sipping from puddles at that point. i will be happy, yes there will be free water so i can buy two packs of newports this morning —

i should say: to be poor is an awfully big adventure. i’d like to write more about loathing rich people. there is a fine argument to be made that this is discriminatory — “rich dog,” comes to mind — but i also think it is simply just. rich people with good personalities sour me. it makes me wonder why i have been exchanged a poor persona and an empty coffee pot — but for what? there will be a day too when i will manage to drink tea. god should shower with tea. what’s weird is that he seems like he doesn’t want to. ask not what god can do for forgiveness. ask what you can do to get tea. i can’t imagine drinking piss — or anal sex — and i think this ultimately makes me straight. i would like to invent a sexuality for attraction to clothing. specifically, sexual attraction to clothing. i have managed to ejaculate into several of my most pleasing shirts, but the problem with the appreciation of threads is that it really only happens from a distance. i don’t like to touch velvet — or much of anything — and i’m beginning to think that zyprexa permanently destroyed all physical — tactile — sensation. i still have aurality and visuality as a set of entrances toward the world, but i don’t seem to feel anything physical except for emotions, and those aren’t even much on the body. i shall asked to be buried in j.crew — the next season — and see what i get. to hang oneself with a cashmere scarf must be an awfully big adventure.

i would never blow a rich guy. i’m sort of inclined toward white trash — the attitude, the personality — and if the body weren’t so dirty or bare i think it worth a shot — not to encounter the type — but at least to qualify a porn search for such.

i have no interest in animals.

even if i could suck my own dick, i think i would not. more sensation with an ice cube. i think i might have a small mouth. but a wide smile. there will be a day when water is sipped from puddles, i drink tea, and my teeth fall out. there will be this day — i bet it’s not a sunday. i will have to deal with these events. like my mother passing. or falling in love. i will cope, these will be busier days, like a wednesday. on that sunday i will rest.

i will re-edit this entry later when i feel inspired.

i’ll jerk off again now and then send the book materials out on friday — but possibly saturday. going to a baseball game late on saturday. i will not bring my phone or wallet. i bet you can’t get tea at a ballpark. you can get coffee, that i know. i will sit with my friend, daniel, and i will sip coke zero and see how long i can defer the pretzel. until then, i apologize —

pinky truce

mom’s book should be available in june.

i’m hornier these days which makes me think i should blow someone. i don’t really want to — would rather endlessly jerk — but i don’t even want to do that — someone should slice off my testicles and arrange them out on this fine mahogany table i use for my books. Yes — when someone comes over, if there were someone, would they see the perfect fruit? it makes me wonder where the slang, “fruit,” comes from — “low hanging fruit”? i think this is probably the origin of my sense that my balls may soon end up near my trackpad. the trackpad would convert to a transponder for my penis. i find it bizarre that i am not constantly thinking about my penis. but: i am not. not really even now. i had been meditating for a month — concentrating on my breath for 10 minutes — but i now think i will do this exercise but concentrate on my penis for 10 minutes. there are gay men who do this as a spiritual exercise. though i think it bizarre and perhaps inhuman — i will try — i can hear his voice now — it’s european, unmuffled — focus on your penis — focus — penis — focus — penis —

it’s been difficult to write the last couple of months. now spent from patrick and starbucks, i have yet to find a new hot spot with a hot guy and a hot joe. now, i listlessly stalk my own apartment, with

grindr in tote, hoping to be hit up but not hit on.