Fuck COVID.

Fuck being home with nothing to do. At least at the office I could shoot the shit, rate all the chicks asses, y’know, find something to fill the time.

Now I got nothing but time. All the money I could ever need. And no excuses not to do . . . y’know, whatever it is good, important, happy people do to help themselves and make the world a shinier place.

Fuck the world. It’s already fucked.

It’s hot as shit, and I look like a damn gangly clown in my ninja mask anyway. So I just sit here in this empty room with jack shit to keep me busy.

You can only jerk off so many times in a day/lifetime. It starts to get pretty fucken weird. You go down some damn rabbit holes, man. I mean, a nice butthole on a screen is one thing, but how many hours do you want to spend zeroing in on that shit? You don’t even have to be my age to feel, every time, how you only have so many orgasms left.

I don’t know. Maybe screen-ass-cummings would be nicer if I could wait for them or something. But isn’t that about as fucked up as anything . . . getting all jolly about looking at the end of someone’s shit pipe, dreaming about getting close to it, giving it a little lick…? 

But what else is there?

Start a business. Get a second job. Go down-fucken-stairs and spend some time with my wife so maybe we can stop being all hostile and formal with each other like everyday’s a new job interview or something. 

Na, I’ll probably just go to CVS, buy a couple energy drinks, and alcohol for later, and stay in line as long as I can just to get a good side glimpse of that Indian girl’s ass . . . the one that works there, who I’ve never said a word to (ever . . . even when she rings me up). Her ass in those soft grey slacks she always wears looks like a couple nice firm-ish pillows, big enough to sleep on, and get lost between for a good couple hours should I get the chance. Y’know, I kind of love it how much Indian Girl hates me, how rude she’s been lately when I just stand there swimming in the sight of all her curves. I want her to hate me. It makes it easier.

Y’see, I never fucken knew this, but pretty much the worst thing you could do in life (and here’s my self-help portion, so please heed these words, ok you fucks?) . . . the worst thing you could do is be nice and let time go by. Because a nice, awkward teen or 20-something guy is almost a whimsical faery creature beloved by all for his potential and charm. Then you hit your 30s, and all the fuckers who still glom on to you to get some of your niceness have sort of made up their minds about you, thinking, Ok, this dipshit’s probably not gonna change and grow some balls now, so . . . let’s stick him in a corner, give him all he needs, rely on him to listen to all our batshit crazy nonsense (since he never seems to even want to get a fucking word in edgewise), and let him serve out the rest of his days that way. There’s nothing fucking cute about a middleage nice guy. 

Unfortunately, and this is where we come to why I’m even writing all this bullshit down, the only way to get out of that cage of living for whatever other assholes care about and need you for, is by dying. That’s right . . . yeah, I’ll say it this way: My name is X, and I’m going to die. I haven’t thought of how yet, or when. Really, the only part I’ve made sense of so far is I’m going to die at some point, so in the meantime I can do whatever the fuck I want.

Then, yeah, COVID hits, and all I got is time. Insurance will take care of my freakshow wife (freakshow-looking, she’s a really nice person). And I can fill my days wandering to places like CVS, staring at the likes of Indian Girl’s ass completely freely no matter how pissed she/they get, go home, jerk off to depressing ass porn, and . . . and be safe in the knowledge it’ll all be over soon. 

The world is fucked anyway. I’m fucked (comfortably, at least). And I don’t give a fuck what you think about anything I just put down at all.

Damn, I really do feel like a whole new person. Oh well.