Notes from The Valley part 21

I’m tired of this bullshit oxford comma.

As some canadian broad put it…

“Anyone who knows proper English knows that you’re supposed to write “JFK, Stalin and the strippers” and not put the plural nouns ahead of the singular personal names.

The Oxford comma is unnecessary if one structures their sentences properly.”

Signed,

Suck my balls ignorant grammar nazi.

(… continued from last post)

So there I was, in my underpants, emu blood splashed across my chest, machete in one hand and bag of peeps in the other.

I turned to the two german cops and said, “this isn’t what it looks like.” Lank turned to me and said, “Looks like we’re gonna have to suck our way outta this one.”

“What?”

(Continued on next post…)

Second time in two months a broad chose another guy over me.

Before that it was a string of failures.

Reminds me of the time I was learning how to fight properly from an old English buddy from Grave’s End. Real tough guy.

We used to play a game every saturday. Slide on the 12 oz gloves and do light sparing. I would take a shot of Jamison if he clipped me, he would take a shot if I clipped him.

He was so goddamn good I always ended up with a few jabs and my ass drunk as Hell.

But one day, a year and half into it, I pulled back to fake a right hook and popped him good with my left.

A shot for him.

We got back to it. He did a few light body shots and I slipped him a nice uppercut to the chin.

Another shot for him.

I had him. I was happy as Hell. Three, four, five…

He was sloshed. I was champ for the first time.

I smiled. He gave me a straight right that broke my nose and knocked me out, devastating any pride I had.

That’s dating.

I was 19. She was 22. We met in a group therapy session right after my first breakdown.

Nights like these, ice cold nights, are the kind of nights I think about her. Only broad I ever told I love you and really meant it.

She had long crimson hair with dark streaks in it; sure it was a dye job but it always smelled fresh. Her clothes seemed to flow over her soft, pale skin. She was tall and delicate with thin lips that would creep into small half-smile when I would do something funny.

She was literally crazy and I was too young to recognize danger, even if it would beat the shit out of me during a manic snap.

I was tired of the fighting and the cops and madness so it ended horribly. I didn’t find out ‘til after she smashed a glass across my head that she’d been sleeping around for months.

I found out a few years back that she was killed by some guy she was seeing in Florida.

I never told anyone that last part of the story, but it’s cold tonight and my bones are getting kind of achy.

Rest in piece, lily.

I always ruin the things I want.

…

I hate you all.

I should be out at some club hitting on broads.

Instead, I’m watching Raging Bull and getting sloshed on Jack.

You know, it’s weird. I want a lady in my life. I really do. I want a kid. I want to take my wife to my kids soccer game. I want to have grandkids…

But bastards don’t get that.

We get booze. We get gambling. We get hookers. We get late-night runs to bail your asshole friend out of Disneyland jail.

Fuck. I hate Disneyland…

Great trip; wonderful people.

Plus, my farts have been spectacular!

My favorite one was crop dusting an entire row of people outside the airport that were kissing each other goodbye.

Notes from The Valley part 13

$4 scotch and sodas at the gay bar on Burbank.

Who am I to judge?

Plus, these boys can fucking SING.

Depression is a cunt.

I want to say I hate you all, but I really don’t.

I just hate me.

You ever count the times you say “fuck, I hate myself” in a day?

I’m up to 23 times.

I also masturbate, on average, 4 times a day.

So if we all do the math, there’s roughly 5 and 1/2 moments of self loathing to every moment of happiness in my life.

Ihatemyselfihatemyselfihatemyselfihatemyselfihatemyselfihate—-

I hate you all.

Your protests mean nothing.

Your revolutions will only give the status quo a millisecond of inconvenience.

I am the 100%.

The human population.

If it’s between you and my own, it’s my own.

Except when it comes to muppets.

Fuck I love those felt bastards.

(This message is brought to you in part by booze.)