Suck My Twenties
Published in

Suck My Twenties

May 19, 2010

Okay, so I’m going to write a screenplay about me fucking up and getting divorced, and tell the whole story, all about the strip clubs and the Tokyo saunas, and the weed and the church and the creeping and the stealing, and the mania, the attempted Walmart heist, trying to walk out with two bulging baskets, middle of the day, walk in barefoot, walk out in boots that I took a while to try on, very obvious, stoned, manic, delusional, and the rap music, and the art, and the porn, and the taking off of my closet doors and painting the graphic representation of some young nubile jungle brown bitch blowing two huge jungle Maya Aztec cocks, and just leaving the closet door, now canvas of lust, how I just leave it out in the middle of the bedroom to dry, and I’m out whoring around smoking weed, losing my mind, manic, writing, singing, rapping, dancing, and all that, and write about the little porno theater, me and one other guy, sitting far apart, he’s up front, a smarmy little greasy little wormy type, sweaty, moist, and I’m in the back row, by myself, watching the movie, and then how the guy proceeds, through a series of little clips of him getting up and changing his seat about 4 or 5 times, pausing, changing, until he ends up sitting right next to me — bing — I stand up and get the hell out of there, stories like this, and how I’m in Christian University, and I’m married, separated, crushed, destitute, sleeping over at Steve and Martin’s apartment, good old Frankie, the Reverend Frankie now, and he’s not far away from here, he’s in Connecticut, about an hour away, I should try and get out there to see him, catch up, maybe meet up with Steve too, but anyways —

I’ll write my fucked-up twenties into a manic comedy drama whatever, and just lay it all on the line, it should be easy — just write it down, just as it happened, no battling for the words, struggling, clawing your way up each day, trying to write the words down that may capture the images you want to present, but it is too hard and no fun and so now I’m doing the illustrated books, and it’s much easier and more free and natural, and it feels way more fun and comes much more easily now, and I’ll get these fucking colored stories out of my system for once and for all, and then move on to the screenplay and get paid and marry my sweet little Guatemalan beauty, bonita, bring her to the good old U.S. of A. and make beautiful babies and work on my books and my screenplay, and have my sweet little G.P.S. with me, my Guatemalan Positioning System when I’m driving, and she’s running her slender little hands through my hair while I drive, and she says she likes it longer like it is, and that it is so soft, and I’m squeezing her knee and thigh, she is so fucking hot and smart and sweet, so I’ve got some “work to do”, although now it doesn’t seem so much like work as play, it is freer and more spontaneous and I’m cleaning out my system of all The And stuff hopefully for a little bit, so that I can write this comedy about my tragedies, and get paid and move on and live with my little bonita by the beach, and —

I’ll write about my bottom of the barrel days in Vegas, broke, stealing from B&N and then returning the books back to Walmart or getting gift certificates with the credit, and then getting $5 gift cards, buying something for $1 or less, getting the $4 in cash, and doing this a couple times, or by stealing the same books that are on sale at Walmart, and returning them to Walmart for store credit, and then using that credit to buy beer and ramen, and pounding the beers in the car, cranking on the rap, rolling down the windows in the Vegas sun and dry heat, beautiful Septembers in Vegas, by the pool, sunny, cool, nice, and those two foreign people, the young horny wife and the whipped, repressed hippy bearded husband cuckold, and she’s very friendly and he’s ashamed, and —

Aumont is there too, and he’s always been friendly with young ladies, maybe even write in the Aumont story into the movie, my connection to the church, and Aumont getting me the weed, us hanging out at his house, write “My Physical” into the script, with even the witch sorceress bag lady, he tells us he heard she’s really some rich old lady, and she’s laying the stones in different designs in front of his door, and he goes on, then he gets lucky and wins some money at the casino, and he sees the bag lady by his door arranging another stone design, and she sees him and takes off, but Aumont limps over trying to thank her, and he leaves some cash in the middle of the undisturbed design, and then the next morning the bag lady has set up her vagabond bag camp on his doorstep, and there is an intricate design of stones at his doorstep, perhaps intermingled with flowers or herbs or something, and then —

Introduce the Brazilian woman and her daughter that I help get their green-cards, and I do love her, but I would never have married her if it wasn’t to help her, but it’s not wholly a scam either, because I do love her, and I’ve been with her this whole time, longer than necessary to just receive the green-cards for her and her fucking Brazilian Lolita daughter, Pollyanna bursting out of her g-string, they’re both legal now and she’s off at school, thank God she’s out of my hair, and I can work on my books and turn the book into videos with music and pacing of the pages, and the effects, and I just stay indoors, wrapped in my robe, trying to stay warm in the New England snowy cold windy bitter weather, and I wake up, hit the elliptical, take a shower, eat, turn on the True Crime shows on the telly and set down to work and crank out another page for the day, boom, collecting, progressing, and I’m two pages away from completing my second little book, and I’ve got plenty more where that one came from, but —

I’m going to take a quick detour and crank out this screenplay I’ve got bouncing around in my old moist box of memories, Swing Low, Sweet Chicolo, and all that, and soon I shall be with my true love, my GPS, my sweet little smart and beautiful, amazing young bonita esposa futura, Yo Quero, we’ll see, I hope —

Suck My Twenties was cursed at birth with a brain that believes it can trade its creations for love. Click the little green heart below to perpetuate this insidious belief and the love you’ll deliver will reflect tenfold.

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suck my twenties

suck my twenties

Just an (un)stable guy…looking back 15 years…at all the videos he made…all the words that he wrote…all the nights that he spent…looking for love…or a wife.