Dirt Centrifuge

The clerk at Kroger smelled worse than me.

Apparently I’m lurching into a Chinaski character as I progress this semester. If that’s true, it means they’ll all soon learn just how lecherous and vile I can be. I think I’ve mildly offended the AI not with vulgarity but with the description of semen dripping slowly from a recently vacated vagina. It’s awful, sure, but it was part of the story and I didn’t plan it. Now I’m a limp-wristed misogynist and along that vein increasing in potency. My ass.

So I took his advice and bought “Women”. So far (pg 3) it’s what you’d expect, and something tells me since I’ve seen Barfly I’ve read all of this before. There’s nothing shocking. It’s more anthropology at which women ought to take a little offense. He’s an asshole. Sure he is. But he’s also selling books, so what the hell?

Blub blub blub. Have I been striving forever to beat the asshole back? Are these impotent cover-ups residual Catholic guilt manifesting?

It’s so easy when you’re a Gemini. There it is, the scapegoat. Wearing two faces, the more genuine of which consistently uglier but less believable than the frontispiece. No, it can’t be true.

I’ve begun applying “Wart Off” to the monster wart on my ring finger and the wartling on my pinkie. It turns them chalky white, making them stand out worse than before. The doctor refused to freeze them, and the immune system drugs that cause a permanent immune response are $150.

Up through the air I go, heaved by the fiend Earth from her bosom.


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