I mean, I really want to know if that's truly necessary. But, that's not actually the topic of this blog. It's about this moral corruption that happened to me one winter about two and a half years ago. Not totally sure the year. When I used to live with my girlfriend, Tookie, we had this huge apartment in Koreatown and it completely haunted me. When I was in the bedroom, relaxing, I constantly thought people were in the living room. I started sleeping with parts of my drum kit ready to beat people to death. Anybody that was ready to come into my bedroom, I was going to hit them over the head with a part of my hi hat stand until they were dead. And, there was this thing. I would be laying there trying to sleep, and I could hear it slobbering and breathing through its teeth. I would try to ignore it for as long as humanly possible, and then, I would tell myself, "Tomatoes, just open your eyes, and you'll see, there's nothing there." And every time, I would open my eyes, I would see this thing. It was about four feet tall. It looked like a quivering praying mantis with a slightly humanoid body with big lobster-like claws and it was drooling so bad. Long strings of phlegm were hanging from its mouth almost touching the floor. It would be there for a second or two, and then, it wouldn't be there anymore. I would jump out of bed and run around the apartment naked trying to catch it. I knew it was a figment of my imagination and everything, but the only problem was it was a figment of my imagination that would never go away. I would open all the cupboards, dump out boxes of shit. Just hoping to satisfy my mind that there was nothing there. I knew there was nothing there, but it was so vivid. I would lay back down, and the sounds of slobber would return. It kept me up so many nights. And my girlfriend had the night shift, so I was left alone night after night in that scary huge place. Cuntmas came around, and I went to go visit some friends for a few weeks in Austin. The first night that I was there, I went to a party at a friend of mine's place. And lo and behold, my ex-girlfriend walks by. She looked so beautiful. I was stunned. She's white with black hair and green eyes. And then, the only thing I remember was people shooting bottle rockets at each other and at me too, and then, I woke up next to her in her bed, and we were both naked, and I thought to myself, "Oh shit, Tomatoes, what have you done? You cheated on your girlfriend." and the worst part of it all was that I didn't even remember any of it. She would always do something to me. It was these sexual marathons. We never lived in the same city. She lived in Austin, and I, in LA, but whenever we got together, it was almost to the point of being unhealthy. My penis would really take a beating. So, I looked over at her. She looked so pretty sleeping over there. I had never gotten to try out my vasectomy on her. I got on top of her and fucked the living bejesus out of her until I came, kissing her the whole time because I can't have it any other way. And then, after giving her many more sweet adoring kisses and her giving me them back, I returned to slumber land. When we finally got up, I went and took a shower and walked down to the beer store. I purchased an 18 pack of Steel Reserve, something I no longer allow myself [no longer true] but at the time, drank it religiously. I sat there and consumed the whole thing on her couch while she lectured me about how upset she was at me for coming inside of her. It was the beginning of a complete unraveling of my sexual morality. But still the guilt was enormous. I knew that she enjoyed it, but she was saying she didn't. "Don't you think you're being a bit severe?" I asked her. She continued to reprimand me. "I'm looking for a boyfriend." "Why in the hell would you want a boyfriend?" I asked. This infuriated her further and the scolding continued with no mercy. Her roommate was sitting on a big, comfy chair across the room witnessing the whole thing. I wanted to fuck her so bad, it was bothering me. I got pancreatitis right there in her house. It's this extremely painful syndrome I get from time to time due to excessive alcohol intake often accompanied by negative emotions. I've been hospitalized for it five times. She kind of felt sorry for me, but not really. She just wanted me out of her house. She dropped me over at my Bry's house that I was mainly staying at. He was out of town for three days. With pancreatitis, you can't drink anything, not even water, and food is completely out of the question. It causes excruciating pain if you drink as much as a sip of water. What happens is if you drink or eat anything, your pancreas knows it, so it starts working and releasing digestive enzymes which are normally supposed to just travel through a duct into your intestines, but those digestive enzymes just emit into your whole abdominable torso region eating away at the other organs. Also, there's a nerve by there and for some reason it pinches it or something, so your back hurts really bad too. So, I just laid there for two and a half days suffering. I wasn't going to go to the hospital. I was on vacation. I wanted painkillers, but once they get a hold of me, I'm stuck for days in the hospital with lectures and people feeling sorry for me, and I don't like being pitied. They take it really serious because you can die from it. Obviously, you can die if your pancreas stops working, but also while in the throes of the bloated pancreas, the pain can be so intense that your body goes into shock, and some people die from it. What a way to go, huh? Die from pain. The pain should be incidental. The whole idea of dying directly from pain. So brutal. I understand the consequences. I wish my body was more resilient, but it's not or maybe I just drink more than other people. Either way, as long as I put out some books before I die, I'll be happy. It was storming outside. The front door has a glass window that I could see from the bed that I was lying in. It was raining so hard. The scratching was coming from the window. I tried to ignore it so hard, you have no idea, but every once in a while, I just had to open my eyes to prove to myself that it wasn't there, but each time I opened my eyes, I saw it there, the short human stink bug with its enormous claws scratching at the windowpane. Motherfucker! It had followed me all the way to Austin. In one quick swoop, I jumped up and ran out the door, hoping to catch it. I ran down the stairs in the freezing rain in nothing but a pair of waxy black jeans. I wanted just a glimpse to either prove to myself it existed or didn't exist or whatever in the fuck. I got to the bottom of the slick wooden staircase in time to see it running across 38th street through the rain, vanishing just before a Ford Tempo would've hit it. Such impeccable timing. A more cunning foe wouldn't even have any interest in me. I finally got better. Not good enough to eat. I could drink a few sips of water, and it hurt, but I was so thirsty. At least, I could move around. Michelle, she really hurt my feelings. My old buddy, Larry the Leopard came to pick me up to go spend Cuntmas eve with him and his kid at his house out in the country. We stopped at Michelle's cuntmas eve party. The girl I fucked with no regard to her emotions according to her. I care about her emotions, and I care about her pussy, and besides anything else, she loved it. She was in heaven. She had so many orgasms, it wasn't even funny. A bunch of her friends were visiting from New York. All those people can eat shit as far as I'm concerned. But, anyway, they're all sipping their foo-foo cocktails. Michelle's hopeful boyfriend was there. He makes me feel inferior. I'm not an artist nor will I ever be one. Writing is not art. It is truth and a whole hell of a lot of lies. But, even through the lies, it is truth and even more than that, a whole bunch of bullshit. That's why she didn't want to fuck me anymore she said. Because she wanted to be boyfriend and girlfriend with him. Why am I boring you with this? I wasn't being my normal friendly self. I was cracking up though. Larry, he's so fucking funny. Such a sweetheart, and so fucking weird looking. His whole body is tattooed in leopard print. Even his penis. He showed me one time when he was visiting me in San Diego. One time, we did heroin in my old apartment in Austin, and I watched him getting a blowjob from this girl I had a crush on, and surprisingly, it didn't make me jealous. And then, they started full on fucking and it cleared the room. Eventually, we all went to sleep and the lights were off, and then me and her friend were fucking each other, and Larry got up to go pee, and I stopped the humping because I felt bashful. The next day, we drank Robotusin and she said that she wouldn't have sex with me anymore. They teased me relentlessly for months about that. It hurt my feelings, but what the fuck ever. I mean, seriously. At the Cuntmas Eve party, everybody was sitting around with legs crossed drinking their civilized amateur night Cuntmas cocktails all the while, Larry's four-year-old kid was going about rambunctiously smashing all of Michelle's shit and scratching her paintings and shit much to my pleasure. She had to yank ballpoint pens out of his hands various times. She went about gathering all the potential art damaging implements to hide them. I felt guilty. Like I was mentally commanding the kid to do it. Larry did nothing. Much to my pleasure. We left like I wanted to anyway. I didn't even want to go to the party, but Larry insisted. I think maybe he thought I could reconcile shit with my ex-girlfriend. I broke up with her because I made her a 99 cent Store sandwich and she was too good for it, and then I gave her a twenty minute blowjob. "That was so fantastic," she told me. I hadn't had sex for months because I had a girlfriend. "Can I have a blowjob?" "Tomatoes!!! You can't just ask for that! It's a present!" as she playfully smacked me on the chest. She didn't want my 99 cent sandwich. She didn't want my 99 cent proletarian dick. So, I waited til she left town and broke up with her over MySpace. Just to be a shitbag, I did it over MySpace. I even announced it in a blog before I did it personally. And by "personally", I mean by calling her on a cell phone while getting drunk at 11 in the morning lounging by the pool at a friend's rich parents pool in the mountains in Thousand Oaks. So, we get into Larry's car. Get the kid in there in the kid seat. And Larry's like, "Tomatoes, can you get my keys? I forgot them in there." His shitbag car was perpetually left open. I hadn't even said good-bye to Michelle. The very last good-bye. So, awkwardly, I had to go back and ring the doorbell. I was completely sober. "Larry forgot his keys." She said nothing. I saw them right there on the table. She won't answer my e-mails. She's says she's French. I told her if she's French, then I'm Russian. All the stupid shit that people say, it wouldn't bother me so much if they would acknowledge it for what it is: stupid shit. I say more stupid shit than everybody else combined, but I call myself on my own bullshit and welcome others to call me on it too. But, in Michelle's world, she wants to think she's French. So, we got out there. It was freezing. Larry had tremendous B.O. much to my pleasure. I live in stuffy-ass LA where nobody has B.O. Not even the insane homeless. We watched his kid unwrap presents and go berserk playing with them breaking half of them in the process. The next day, he showed me this awesome deer stand right next to his house. They kill deers there. So fucking cool just from awfulness. There was blood on the ground. I collected a jaw bone which I still have. Larry made some macaroni and cheese and his kid wouldn't eat it. "You don't want to be a big boy like us and eat your macaroni and cheese?" I said obviously kidding. I could give a shit less if he eats his macaroni and cheese. I was finally able to get some beer in me and was in a way better mood. But, he started crying. I was always forget how gullible little kids are. Larry, to console him, got some Incredible Hulk like punching gloves or something, I don't know what the fuck and urged him to attack me which he did, and it was funny. Teach children to resolve their issues through violence. Who the fuck cares anyway? So, then we went to this like Walmart of hunting on our way back to Austin. It was incredible. They had every living creature stuffed and on display. What a way to go, . . . you not only got killed, your body also gets stuffed, and everybody gets to gawk at it. Legalized murder: delicious, fantastic stuff. I love it. so beautiful and so Texan. A bunch of rednecks were making fun of Larry in front of his kid. So rude. Why would you make fun of somebody in front of their child? Back at home, Dave Clardy came and picked me up. He's so funny. He has a tattoo of George Bush, Sr. fucking a dog. We've known each other since we were really young. Sometimes, I feel like I rip off his whole personality. So, he picked me up, and there was like a towel or something on the shotgun, and then, I began to realize that everything was kind of wet, and he was drinking gin. "What in the fucking hell happened in here?" I asked. "Oh, I've been drinking all day, and just right before I picked you up, I threw up. I tried to get it all in this cup, but a lot of it spilled out." And sure enough, there was a paper cup full of vomit in the cup holder. My sugar honey bear. My sweet poopy pants. I always write myself in for president and I always write Dave Claredy in for vice-..president. Really, it should be the other way around, but you know, . . . whatever. He explained to me all about his ex-girlfriend. I knew her. She taught me about the methadone program. It's fantastic. Better than heroin. I think it almost killed me once though. She commited suicide, and Dave had to organize the whole funeral. What I want to know is do our ex-girlfriends die young because of us or were they with us because they lead a lethal lifestyle in the first place? Was that convoluted enough for you? We went and got Tamale House #3 and then got thoroughly wasted and cuddled. Bry left town again, and I found out a friend of mine was in town. visiting from Sweden So, I called her up, and invited her over. I was being good. Just wanted to hang out and get drunk and smoke cigarettes which we did I'm sure of it. She took a cab over from south Austin. She looked really good: tiny wearing gigantic boots. The next morning I woke up in Bry's bed naked with her. "Oh fuck! I cheated on my girlfriend again! and I don't even remember it." fuck fuck fuck. You see, I was a bit surprised for various reasons. I didn't think she would ever fuck me again after I gave her Chlamydia years prior. She was so mad at me. Also, Bry doesn't like me to sleep in his bed naked, and I respect that. He's been letting me stay with him for like 15 years or something. Whenever I go to Austin, I always stay with him. So, not only did I sleep naked in his bed, but I had sex in it. Well, whatever. Don't tell him. And, he boycotts MySpace, so he'll probably never even read this. FUCK FUCK FUCK! I used my vasectomy on her and remembered nothing. I put her lying face down ramming her head into the pillow, relentlessly punishing her, and then just as I came, I pulled her hair forcing her mouth up to me and violently kissed her all the while coming in her pussy. And then, we proceeded to coat the entire City of Austin with our icky love juice. Many public bathrooms cringed in fright upon seeing us approaching walking down the sidewalk. The downtown public library gouged its own eyes out after seeing the truly horrendous activities that took place within its walls. One public bathroom commited suicide from the trauma. She left, and then I did too. Me, Larry, and Dave Clardy all hung out together on my last night. We hung out at Larry's tattoo shop and got drunk and gave each other tattoos. It was sickly sweet and nostalgic and beautiful and fun and it made me so sad. I tattooed the word, "TOMATOES" on Dave Clardy's ankle. I was cracking up so hard. The next morning, I woke up, got rippingly wasted, and Bry gave me a ride to the airport. After some difficulty and much confusion getting through the checkpoint, I sat down next to this girl on the plane. She was probably about 22, blond hair. Wearing an Aber-Crombie and Finch shirt. Probably a UT student. I couldn't tell if I thought she was attractive. She was so generic, it was like there wasn't even anything there. Once the plane took off, I began balling like a little baby. It came in waves and zero inhibition until I got a glance at her, and she was staring at me, startled. Like, really really startled. So, I closed my eyes, and swallowed very hard and began the internal dialogue, "Tomatoes, what the fuck is wrong with you? Nothing's wrong. Swallow. Swallow hard. We're gonna get home to LA, get drunk, do a shot of heroin, and watch some Doctor Who DVD's. Everything's all right." All the while, tears were trickling from within my closed eyelids down my cheeks gently sprinkling the collar of my shirt. But, at least I wasn't making any noise. Sitting there with your eyes closed is not an aggressive act even if you do happen to be obviously weeping. At least, I wasn't making any noise. That is until the plane touched down again in Burbank, and then the sobbing returned. Even grislier than before. The girl looked twice as alarmed. I couldn't help it. I lost complete control of my emotions. I wasn't even quite sure what was upsetting me so. I got my backpack and walked down the tunnel whipped, whimpering, and tired with my tail between my legs. The apartment was dirty, I couldn't find the Doctor Who DVD's. It took me an hour and a half on the buses. Tookie was disappeared. My heroin dealer came over. I comforted myself with that along with lying on the bare floor with some Steel Reserve and a book of Philip K. Dick short stories. Three o'clock rolled around. I thought it a good idea to get some sleep. Just to escape life for a bit. It's healthy for every man, woman, and child. I masturbated to the prostitute ads in the back of LA Weekly in the bathroom. Before I even shut my eyes, I heard somebody shuffling about in the living room. "Hello?!?! Hello?!?!? Tookie, is that you?!?!?" No answer. I ran out there wearing speedo underwear with the pole from the throne ready to break heads. There was nobody there. So, OK. That's a good thing. Well, not so much. The slobber monster returned. I want to wring its neck, so bad. I probably slept no more than an hour that night. And then, somebody came into my bedroom. I was so ready to kill. I jumped out of bed and took a wild swing. Thank fucking God. Thank the fucking Universe. Thank everything I could possibly imagine to thank. That I missed. It was Tookie. She called 911. I put on the most uncomfortable clothes I could find. Some wingtips with no socks. For punishment. You piece of shit, Tomatoes. If there is a hell, you will burn in it, certainly. You don't play nice in the sandbox. You don't play nice anywhere. I went outside and waited for the cops on Normandie. I knew I was going down for a really long time. Oh yeah, all my old friends: the Woods, the Southsiders, the Blacks trying to give me food so I get beaten up by the Woods. Challenging me to a taboo game of chess. "I can't play chess with them?" "No, you can't. We'll kick your ass." "Well, that makes no sense to me." "It doesn't need to." Those fucking Marine push-ups. Nine point push-ups. Fist fights. I already knew how I was going to end it. Stick my hands in the elastic orange and jump head first off the balcony. I hate all that macho bullshit like you would never believe. I like the comfort received from the company of women. Deprived of that, I'm not so sure life is worth living. Deprived of alcohol, I would shrivel up and die regardless of intent. The police showed up in spades. At one point, there was at least, I don't know what. fifty of them. Tookie came out. Told them what happened. Apparently, it wasn't anything illegal. I breathed the biggest sigh of relief I ever will. I was shuddering out there "thanking the Universe" as my mother would say. If that would've hit, I wouldn't be sitting here at nine in the morning in my dingy Hollywood apartment drinking a beer writing this blog. I can honestly say, I probably wouldn't be alive. They wanted to take me down for warrants of which I had none. "Well, what are we wasting all of our time with this fool?" I overheard one saying. A fool? How appropriate. That's a crime I'll readily admit to committing. I'm not sure if it's a jailable offense. Apparently not. They left. I couldn't stay the night. I walked over to Sam's. It was comical. In high school, we lived on the same street. And then, here in LA, we both were living on Normandie, in Koreatown. I laughed so hard. And fell asleep on his couch. Fell asleep on many couches. A week later, me, Sandy, and Fucking John came by with the U-haul, and put all that shit in public storage. Tookie was sleeping on the bed. I told her to get off. It got bed bugs in public storage, Such a nightmare, but I think that's another blog.