Dear reader, have you played a game called love?
I’ve met a girl. Twenty-five. Gorgeous. Within a few dates we were sleeping together. Are there any red flags, Nikolai, that a mature and romantically experienced fellow (oh, thank you!) might have noticed? Yes, yes. A shirtload. A blerrie mayday parade full, mate. Here are some: Read More
The release of Doom 4 got me all nostalgic and thoughtful about my horrific teenage years. I haven’t played computer games for many years but I loved them when I was a kid. I’d completely lose myself in the original, 3D Doom world, shooting up demons, finding secret areas, being utterly isolated from a world outside that seemed intent on my defenestration.
Doom, to what passed for my friends and I, perfectly encapsulated our ethos. Utter, furious, helpless nihilism. A back story that nobody cared about, gruesome violence for no good reason except fun. It was like ISIS for lazy atheists. Listening to Pantera, roasting enemies, eating junk food, hiding my zits and weak physique, my social retardation, immaturity, insecurity and my stupid hair from everyone and everything.
The nihilism of our 90s subculture was born of Read More
Debbie.
Forty-five, fat in a short, roly-poly kind of way. Greying, middle-aged hairstyle. A loving and formidable mother to her school-age children. She’d had an interesting life. Rode a motorbike with her boyfriend (now husband) on the hippy trail from Calais to Singapore in the 1970s, passing through the Soviet Union, Afghanistan and Bangladesh on the way. She showed us a photo of them on the bike in outback Pakistan. Yowzah! She was well hot, dressed in skimpy shorts and a sleeveless shirt. He was tall, hairy and clad in leather, a sombre intelligence emanating from his craggy features. She was my former colleague. A few of us got together at her house for a reunion.
She lived with her family on a sprawling bush property outside the city in a large, custom designed timber house. They had a lady who came around once a week to help clean and they had a contract with a company that cleaned the pool and cleared the fire break. It was far more than us low-level functionaries could afford on our own – clearly hubbie was on the shit. Good for him.
The man himself met us at the door. For a moment I was startled and couldn’t guess who he might be. Read More
My smart phone is half broken. I can’t pull the top menu down. Have to turn it over to the side.
I left my scarf at work. Have to wear the old one that smells of mothballs.
I keep getting white gunk in my eyes, around the tear ducts. I wipe it off twelve times a day but it instantly returns. What kind of fucked up adaptation is this? Perhaps my ancestors lived in an environment where brain-eating bugs crept up the tear ducts and consumed their brains. Maybe that’s this environment. Shouldn’t have wiped it. Explains why I’m so stupid.
Dandruff.
YouTube won’t load.
It’s meant to rain on and off all weekend. How am I supposed to get my washing dry?
I have a vague feeling there’s something I was supposed to Read More
Ten years ago:
The front door shuts and she’s gone. The gentle ka-click firmly concludes three years of our lives.
Also, I am going to lose my job.
There’s a third, of course. My father has been diagnosed with a chronic illness that will not end well.
Her leaving, the most recent of this week’s disasters, came as a surprise because I am young and retarded. Didn’t see her drifting towards more accomplished cock. And there she goes. Will never suck on those massive tits again. Never smell her neck that makes me swoon like it’s doused in opium. Never wake beside her warm pajamas or see her sleeping face innocent of its daytime worry and affectation.
I’d come home and she was Read More
Another time, another place.
I’m staring around my blue painted room in panicked desperation. The computer, tabs flicking between Word and AltaVista’s ‘asian blowjob’ search results. A gothic poster that I hoped would look cool if a girl ever came here. Books from my recent childhood. My family unheard, in bed, perhaps asleep. It’s late. I’ve been drinking coffee. My heart races unevenly.
Do they know?
I can’t focus because of the gloomy pit of despair that twists like a cruel, bloated worm from my throat to my bowels. It’s there most of the time. Been there for years, growing and squirming inside me. I wake up to it and fall asleep with it. I’m sometimes amazed that I’m still alive. How can I feel like this, for so long, and yet move and breathe like a normal person? The feeling is so physically and emotionally painful that I’m sure it must eventually give me cancer or a heart attack. Sometimes I hope that it does. I am twenty but I feel like an old man looking back at my insubstantial life with regret.
I have few friends. The ones I have are getting sick of me and are trying to fade away but I persist, turning up at parties to which I have not been invited, ignoring their embarrassed confusion, talking hopelessly to girls even I find unattractive. I have no girlfriend. I have no achievements to my name. I stare at the ceiling, thinking again of my parents who have their own problems.
Do they know?
I roll over, flick again to the back pages of the local paper. Advertisements for brothels. There’s one not so far away, in an industrial area. But, do I dare? Read More
Note to reader: All the pictures on this page have been deleted. Without them, there’s not much meaning to the post.
Above: Scully in The X-Files and again, today.
Readers, I have a shameful habit. No, I don’t mean sticking my finger up my bum when I wank. There’s nothing wrong with that.
When watching an old movie featuring a nubile hottie, I search the actress to see what she looks like today. I also do this for 90s pop stars and the like. Why? Because I am a contemptible human being.
Samples:
(The girl comes on soon):
Nancy Coolen in Slave to the Music video clip, and today.
Pamela Anderson in Baywatch, and today.
Shannen Doherty in Beverly Hills 90210, and today.
