Male Seeking Gonadectomist

I quit drinking for my Fake Girlfriend.

My scrawny, sober legs can no longer support my meager 150-pound frame. I haven't had a drink of water in over a year and now I'm nauseated by its taste, like pure backwash. My eyes protest and my mind is out to lunch, and the shadows claw at me from the corners of the room. My guts churn and knot trying to wring out any last drop of ethanol before rocketing me to the nearest public pisshut to violently eject an explosive fecal blank with the force of a fucking Panzer--look down for a damage report and find nothing but a stagnant pool of hemorrhoidal discharge and a penny-sized nugget of shit for the effort. There's an angered, prodded wolverine rending into the innards of my brow, gnashing down its fangs into every strip of grey matter, and I know that it can only be quelled by a jack and coke, a 7 and 7, moonshine, rubbing alcohol, fucking vanilla extract, just wire me to an IV and fill it with Listerine to get this motherfucking weasel out of my skull. 

On the other hand, I stopped pissing blood.

Meanwhile Fake Girlfriend sits at home rubbing out the pale remnant flakes of my measly prick to pictures of her married coworker's yardstick übercock--"we haven't fucked", she assures me, well what fucking good that does to a self-deprecatory narcissist like me. My ego's head is already in the oven just waiting for it to preheat. Just knowing she's going somewhere else for a latenight cunt-rub is enough to reduce my image of self-worth to a fucking heated backup dildo, but unlike his its not even nestled in between one of those stupid fucking waist-Vs that women love. Yeah, but I've got the feature that reaches around to kiss your ass while it vibrates, gotta keep that around for when the rest of the seats are taken. Oh, closer to the hole? Sure, lemme put down this vodka, anything for you. Because I am a fucking nebbish. I am a loser who has nothing left but her. I lost my mind, my liver, my scholarship, my home, I'm two months late on my car payment, I've buried myself in 2-grand of debt, and as far as a life-plan I'm just trying to make it the rest of the month without installing a fucking 9mm cranial skylight. A few years ago I could get by with a good face and a triple-digit IQ, but sooner than I ever expected I find without a Goldman Sachs corner office, an 830 FICO, and a vibrating piston cock I'm unqualified for anything but a 19 year-old Psych-major dropout who can rattle off my astrological quarks on quickdraw. I don't deserve her, and I know it. So what the fuck do I do?

I suppose it's time to pour myself a drink. Hello, old friend.

Fuck Shit Donkey Cunts

I'm in my 20s, which is my 70s in Irish Catholic years. By this age I'm supposed to have 34 grandkids, a liverfull of cirrhosial cysts, and a fucking tombstone. I had been doing what I could to catch up. After years of habitual heavy drinking culminating in a liter a day of premium quality triple-micturated rotgut my body has been reduced to a tentative obituary. I am a walking D.A.R.E PSA. I am a pug. I am your high school friend's 1968 Ford Probable Cause that'd been Theseus'd tenfold but somehow decades later still fucking runs. He could only kill the ignition by stalling it; its horn meekly beseeched with each muffled wheeze "good God, just scrap me, I beg you"; at every stoplight it gushed noxious billows of blackened smog into crowds of schoolward children; he only kept it around because he couldn't afford anything better, and occasionally it'd get him half-laid by an annoying nipple-ringed 7 whose dad stopped calling on her birthdays.

That's my body. I've bled from every orifice, often for weeks or months at a time. I've spent years vomiting almost daily without explanation. My body aches and pains and leaks and fails. I subsist solely on a diet of septic fast-food filth, straight liquor, and hail-Mary pharmaceuticals flung desperately by doctors, psychiatrists, and That Weird Girl Who Sells You Cheap Adderall Because You Know Her Boyfriend. I spend blackout sleepless weekends vacuuming down cocktails of heart-stopping, liver-pummeling, psyche-shattering mystery substances hastily procured from This Guy From Thomas's House Thing, garbed in oversized mugshot attire fished from a dimly lit PlanetAid drop off box, who introduces himself as Munz or Q before creeping out the host's girlfriend, swearing to you that you've just GOT to check out this live Phish video, and slinking back off into the Worldstar set he rents out by selling weed to his landlord, and then I fumble my way into some sloppy, sweaty cocksleeve whose face has a name I can't remember, and who only thinks to suggest a condom 10 minutes in so I figure "alright, your hole, your rules" and pull one on, vacuum-sealing all of the Chlamydia-laden, HPV-crawling, AIDS-caked cuntjuice into my cock-pores before we just decide to do away with it again in 5 more minutes, and afterward we better crack open that other handle of vodka so we can flush you out in case my retarded double-headed precum whiskey sperm ends up wiling its way past the last guy's batch to the egg, and then I wander off in someone else's clothes to go pass out half-naked in the beckoning hypothermic wilds beside a puddle of my own bile.

But only just recently have I considered that perhaps my effort could be better focused on something else.

So hello, world. It might as well be this.