As I continue to focus mainly on making podcasts and masturbating, I don't have a ton of stuff to put up here on my blog about my shitty, shitty life.
As many of you know, I recently finished moving into my off-campus housing. This wonderful pile of shit will probably be where I die. Between the wonderful New Brunswick populous that are wonderfully inclined to break into your home and murder you to the holes in the ceiling and mold spores on each and every wall of the house, there is a 98% chance this is my last year on planet earth.
All that being said, I am sure living in this hell-hole will probably give me a ton of content but most of it will be broadcasted orally via my podcast.
If you're too new to this site to not have seen the post directly before, you can listen to my podcast either on soundcloud or on the iTunes Podcast app that you probably didn't even know you had.
Anyway, below is a short-story I wrote a year or so ago and have been unable to find a home for it. Apparently the New Yorker isn't fond of short-stories about anal.
You'll understand what I mean when you read the whole thing. Without further ado, here is a humorous short story I wrote entitled "Palm Trees in Kentucky."
Palm Trees In Kentucky
Carrie was still on my mind even a year later. Seriously, it seemed like every day there would be some bullshit that made me think of her. I’d literally be driving down a street that we went down maybe once/twice and then the wheels would be turning and it was just a fucking nightmare. Is that normal? Fucking a year later I’m still spending time every day thinking about her. And listen, it’s not even like last year was when she dumped me- no, no. She actually dumped me over a year ago- I think last year was when I saw her for like eight seconds in some restaurant. So, I guess this obsession- this vex I had over her is what drove me to online dating.
It’s pathetic isn’t it? It’s hard to even say online dating. I sound like a pussy. Honestly, I am a pussy. Online dating is like that shitty friend you don’t want to mention to grandma. “What” she’d start. “You can’t find a nice girl? You can’t go to the library or the mall or something and meet somebody? What the hell’s the matter with you?” Oh fuck you grandma.
The sad thing is that after high school- after college, the girls you come in contact with are absurdly uncomfortable since they’re the people you work with. How am I supposed to even talk to Dana with the big tits? What’s my motive? She knows it and I know it: to bust an orgasm inside her after 45 seconds of awkward, unfulfilling strokes. Then it would be weird in the office because I don’t want to date a woman who’s 10 years older than me and all we’d have to remember that one night and the cum stain on my shirt. Besides, I don’t think she’d want to, as delightful as the whole scenario sounds.
Anyway, back to the story: I matched with this girl, Laura. She looked pretty. Now, just because she looked pretty didn’t mean shit. With anything online, there’s a very strong chance that behind the computer is a hairy 45-year old Balkan man whose trying to lure you into his anal-dungeon. Then there’s a stronger chance that she’s not really that good looking. I mean with all the make-up, filters, lighting, it’s actually hard to detect if someone’s good looking or not. But, I took the risk. I matched with Lauren, we started messaging, I got her number, etc. Finally, we decide on a first date and she said she’d show me a place as long as I drove her. Alright. Fine. Pick you up? No fucking problem lady.
I’m a white guy- in case you couldn’t figure it out by the fact that I’m online dating. Not to say that there aren’t any black guys on dating websites- but well, there really aren’t- at least not any 24-year olds. But, being a white guy it means picking the quintessential ‘first date outfit:’ a plain button up shirt and a nice pair of pants. I went with blue. Why? Because fuck you. I got in my car and drove 10-15 minutes to her house. This distance was good because it wasn’t so far that it would annoy me if we ever made this into a relationship but if this went horribly wrong there was a solid chance I would never see her out in public.
I pulled up to her house and she was already outside. This at first struck me as odd, but then I realized I texted her ‘here’ 3 minutes ago and I would have been there if some ass-clown in a silver Honda wasn’t busy scratching his asshole while driving 10 miles an hour. She gets in my car and says hello. I said hey. There was an awkward situation of “oh, should I kiss her on the cheek? Should I shaker her hand? Should I just pull my penis out and say, ‘hey, we both know why I’m here.”’
“You look nice,” I said. And I wasn’t referring to her outfit. She actually was as pretty as her profile pictures. I probably shouldn’t have made mine pictures of Chuck Norris from 1982, in retrospect.
“You too,” she replied. “I like that shirt.” Bitch, it was a plain fucking blue shirt.
“So, where are we headed?”
“I’ll direct you, it’s a surprise.”
“Are you going to chop me up into little pieces and eat me?”
“What?” It was at this point I realized this date wouldn’t go particularly well if she didn’t understand my darling sense of humor.
“Never mind.” For the next few minutes we had some small talk and she gave me directions. I don’t know why she had to make it such a pain in the ass, she could have just told me the restaurant’s name. Now, it’s important to mention that my phone was plugged in to the car’s sound system. I love music. I have a very broad, eclectic taste in music. I have some metal, a lot of rap, jazz, blues, old rock and roll, indie rock, classic; I mean if it’s good music I’ll listen to it. Hell, sometimes even if it’s bad music and my friends play it I’ll listen to it. My phone was on shuffle and we were doing okay for the most part. “Regular” music was playing. You know, some Led Zeppelin, some Wu-Tang Clan, nothing that was crazy for a twenty-four year old white man. Then Coltrane came on. Now, I love Jazz- I really do. I love Jazz so much that I forget that it might be strange to another person who is not collecting social security.
“What is this,” she asked.
“Oh fuck, sorry. This is John Coltrane. It’s Jazz.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Well, you know, Jazz isn’t like, ‘first date’ music, I guess.”
“You like Jazz?”
“Love Jazz. It’s smart, you know? Like, when Jazz is playing you really have to listen to it. You can’t just leave it on in the background. You have to feel how they were making the music, I guess. Especially when you’re listening to someone like Coltrane.”
“My grandpa used to like Jazz.”
“He doesn’t like it anymore?”
“Well, he died.”
“Well, he died.”
I’m a fucking idiot. We pulled up to the restaurant. It wasn’t anything special. We got a table and started looking at the menu. I got coffee and she got tea. I immediately realized this human being in front of me was not for me. You’re getting tea? Are you a fucking pussy, miss? Are you a British imperialist? At this point I figured ‘fuck it.’ This date is already going to amount to nothing. I’m going to just do whatever the fuck I want. I decided to elevate the conversation to medium talk. Medium talk, by the way, is a term I learned from watching Curb Your Enthusiasm and from what I can deduce it’s the in-between from small talk to in-depth, deep conversation.
“What’s your favorite position?” I asked.
“Eh... I used to like being on top but lately I’ve been doing a lot of anal.”
Did I just hear-
“Yeah. My ex and I tried it out a few months ago and ever since I’ve really been into it.”
“I swear to God.”
“Well this just got very interesting.”
“Oh, I wasn’t interesting before I admitted that I like anal?”
“No, I don’t mean that I just-“
“No, I don’t mean that I just-“
“I know, I’m just kidding.” She chuckled and I laughed. Okay British Imperialist, I see you. I began to enjoy this date. I’ll admit: my penis was slightly aroused. “So really tell me about yourself. You’re an actual writer? Like you put words in orders and sell them?”
“Sure do,” I said.
“What are you working on right now?”
“I just submitted my manuscript to a publisher I’m waiting to hear back. Hopefully, I’ll be able to quit my job and focus more on the writing, you know?”
“But you’re not working on anything else right now?”
“I had an idea for a short story about a serial killer in Kentucky but I haven’t started it yet.”
“Because you just finished the manuscript?”
“Because you just finished the manuscript?”
“Well that, and because I haven’t had a chance to research Kentucky.”
“What do you mean research?”
“Well, with writing you can’t just pick a spot and bullshit it- I mean you can, but then if anybody from that place actually bothers to read it they’ll be able to smell the bullshit. I mean, there are people who would believe in palm trees in Kentucky but then there are people who actually live there.”
“Palm trees in Kentucky... I like that.” The date kept going on and I kept trying to think of things to say that would eventually get my penis into her asshole. Finally, the bill came and I was cool enough to actually remember to pay that. I went to drop her off at her house and she invited me in.
Oh yes. I made it in the house- maybe I can make it into the anus. She showed me around the house and we sat in the kitchen. She made coffee and I think this was my final test before she took me to the bedroom. It was like the final level of Mario. I made it. I beat all the other worlds, I had mushrooms and power ups and all I had to do now was beat that asshole Bowser and I would make it into Princess Peach. That was a god damn good analogy. Go back and read that again.
So we chitchat some more and we eventually go upstairs. She shows me the bedroom and I kiss her. She kisses me back and we go through the motions. Eventually comes this point where her ass is up in the air and my penis is out. I go in. I haven’t done this since college. For a moment, I take some time and think about how this day has went and how just the simple act of clicking ‘like’ on a profile picture ultimately ended up with my genitals inside of this lady’s asshole.
Life was good. This felt good. And then her ex-boyfriend came into her house and pulled me off of her. He started shouting and apparently, this break up did not go as cleanly as I had interpreted from her brief mentioning of him. He started screaming and threatening me and instead of being a manly man and standing up to him, I took my clothes and my smelly dick and left.
I got in my car and drove home. Along the way, I thought about palm tress in Kentucky. I thought about my day again. And then- I fucking thought about Carrie.