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Day Sixteen.

Today was exquisite. In fact, the last couple of weeks have been exquisite. Case in point: I beat a videogame. Wait, scratch that because I didn’t just beat one videogame. Hell no. I beat 18 of them. Four Call of Duties, Two Halos, Two Grand Theft Autos, every God of War, and both Manhunts. I can’t remember what the other games were but they trained me to kill people too. There is a man under my stairs that is going to stab me, too, I swear to God. He’s waiting for me.

I would have called Katy on Skype but I beat three of those Call of Duties with a team of 14 year olds online today so I think everything is gay. I mean, I don’t but the fact that I thanked the pizza delivery guy for bringing me extra ranch by calling him a “faggot” is enough reason. For bringing me extra ranch! I’m the faggot, if anybody is. And the irony gets me so hard.

Last night I got ten thousand words into writing Winning Raffles For Dummies before I realized that writing a book in this sort of economy was tantamount to failure. Nobody wants to read books about winning raffles when they can go on the internet and read the information on there. That means all of my work is just trash.

And that’s why I haven’t updated every single day. It’s been about playing video games, talking to Katy intermittenly, and listening to Torrey cry in Chaz’ room, our living room, and in my sleep. And smoking pot. Torrey has been smoking lots of our pot around here. Almost more than usual. Since I’m ignoring my friends’ phone calls I’m using all my extra phone minutes to call Aaron 4 and pizza guys.

I also began to write a story about getting a tattoo, reproduced here in its entirety:

Day 25. Sunday.

Never did I ever think this day was going to happen: I learned how to say “it’s cool” in German. It’s “ist krieg”. And it’s tattooed on my taint.

Wednesdays are particularly dreadful because no matter how you perceive time—forwards or backwards—the weekend is still two days away. Weekday stress is most concentrated on Wednesdays. Depressed people like me have no hope to find on a Wednesday. My friends know this and like surprising me with fun activities on Wednesdays because I let them believe I like surprises even though I don’t like surprises. What? I never said I was a particularly adept sociopath; I can’t control everything. Luckily, today was a Sunday.

Jeremy rang my blower today ‘round 4:30pm. “Me and Bryan are going to be by soon to pick you up.”

“What? Why?”

“15 minutes,” he said before an abrupt hang-up. Oh God. I’ve hated suprises since my parents “surprised” me and with cats— which is not to undermine my parents’ divorce by any means but I really hate cats.

“Whatever,” Jeremy said, “You haven’t eaten yet, right? Lets get lunch somewhere.”

“Sure man, I could eat some food.” And thirteen minutes later and I was hopping into the back seat Jeremy’s beat up 2012 Hyundai Aluntra and we were on our way to get me a tattoo.

“We’re taking you to the tattoo shop,” Bryan said as we pulled away from my apartment complex.

“Dude, I can’t afford a tattoo!” I said as Jeremy sped through one of them yeller lights.

“Don’t worry,” Jeremy called back to me, “We’re paying for it.” He pointed at Bryan and then back to himself. “Show him the cash,” he said. Bryan threw a phat stack of cash at me—like the kinds you see in the movies that have to be wrapped in rubber bands. It was a stack of twenties.

“Oh my God, how much…?” I started.

“One thousand dollars,” Bryan said.

“No way, a thousand dollars? Do they take cash like this at the tattoo store?” I asked.

“No,” Jeremy said, “We’re going to pay for the tatau by card. That thousand dollars is for you.”

My heart skipped a beat, my throat sank, and my hair went white. Oh no… “I don’t want to getthat tattoo,” I said.

Sure you do,” Jeremy said.

“Sure I do,” I repeated back, unable to disagree with my best friend. See, I had drunkenly given my word three years ago that I would tattoo a vagina on my taint if Jeremy, Bryan, and/or any other backer had a thousand bucks to give me— on top of paying for the tattoo.

Bryan turned to me from the passenger seat, “Charlie, is the ‘Phil’ guy on your blog based off of me?”

“No, I have a co-worker named Tim that it’s based off of but I can’t use his real name so I had to change it to Phil.”

“I just really identify with the guy, you know?” he said.

“It’s because he can snap like a motherfucker, right?”

“Yeah, and I snap like a motherfucker and just like, he’s toothless too and you know me, right?” This was indeed true; I had forgotten that Bryan was also missing roughly half of his teeth.

“It’s nothing like Tim, though, Bryan. Tim- I mean, Phil, he has no teeth and you at least have twenty. And on the flip-side, Phil has a job and you don’t.” Bryan winced. He never liked me bringing up his lack of employment but I always liked bringing up his lack of employment, so it was hard to find a happy medium for the two of us to reach during conversation.

Jeremy kept driving and Bryan stopped talking. I wanted to balance my karma out before the tattoo so to make Bryan feel better I reminded him that Phil was homeless. And off we continued. Went. Kept going. To Mount Tattoo Taint. That wasn’t the name of the tattoo shop. I was just trying to make a joke during this stressful time.

When we got to the place it became clear to me that Jeremy and Bryan had been planning this event for a long time. The nurse up front had all the paperwork already filled out with my name and Jeremy was able to produce a forged parent note saying it would be OK to tattoo a realistic-looking vagina on my taint even though I could bleed to death (“You don’t have hemophilia today,” Jeremy assured me back in the car).

The nurse led Bryan, Jeremy, and me to the section of the warehouse where our doctor was going to perform the procedure. Nothing could have prepared me for the Matrix-like device they had waiting for me in this corner of the building. Now, I had been to a tattoo warehouse before so I was used to seeing the amalgamation of dentist equipment, workout equipment, and torture-sex equipment that the doctors used at similar shops, but I’d never seen the contraption they had set up for me before. Basically, imagine going to the OB-GYN except you don’t get to wait in the car this time.

It was a reclining chair that hard large chromium arms coming out from the bottom, all angled toward the leg-and-ass section of the chair. This thing was going to spread my legs wide open and hold them in position, while a long rope dangled from the ceiling above the seat.

I didn’t want to act like I didn’t know what I was talking about when the nurse was there so I waited for her to leave before giving Jeremy my analysis of my new temporary throne “I think I’m supposed to tie that rope around my balls so I don’t have to hold them up for…for how long? How long is this going to take?”

“Five hours the first day, I think,” Jeremy said. “We’ll have to come back in a couple months to do another session and get the coloring perfect.”

“Really, Jeremy? I’m going to have to do this more than once?”

Bryan interjected, “Your taint is going to be a bleeding mess five minutes into this thing, Charlie. They’re going to do as much as they can but there is no way they’re going to be able to get the entire vagina on your taint today.”

“Why are they tattooing such a big vagina on my taint?”

“It’s not about tattooing a monster key-lime pie on your taint so much as tattooing the perfect key-lime pie on your—” I cut Bryan off.

“So I mean, are you guys going to watch?”

“Yeah, I mean, we’re not going to stare at your dick, taint, and hairy asshole for five hours, but we’ll watch,” Jeremy said. Bryan nodded.

“We’re going to see your asshole, regardless,” Jeremy said,”We’re just not going to stare at it for five hours.” Five hours. This is really happening. Everything was hitting me hard. And quickly. The doctor was going to be out soon and then it was going to be time to show him my penis. And then he’s going to have to stab my taint with his electric tattoo machine. For five hours. I could already hear the cries of the lambs.

As if on cue, Dr. Jaime appeared. Dr. Jaime, was a short Mexican man. Pretty skinny, no tattoos himself— immediately a warning sign and by the shocked look I was making on my face it was clear to him I had noticed his lack of ink. He brought out a hand to shake, “Hey, I’m Jaime and I’m going to be tattooing this monster cunt on you.”

“Thanks, Dr. Jaime,” I said, shaking his hand, “But you’re not going to be tattooing a, uh, monster cunt on my taint.”

“Sure I’m not,” he said, winking. I wasn’t sure he got the point.

“No, Dr. Jaime, you are not going to tattoo a a giant vagina on me. It is going to be a normal-sized vagina tattoo.”

Tatau,” Jeremy interrupted.

“Shut up with that tatau shit, Jeremy. This man is going to spend more time around my asshole awake than any person on this planet Earth has and will. Can we just make a couple more memories together before this one?”


I’m having a hard time getting the words on out this one. See, I mentioned getting “it’s cool” in German tattooed on my taint instead of the vagina at the beginning of the story, so that is fine. But I’m having a hard time figuring out how I would have convinced Bryan to get the tattoo of the vagina on his taint instead while I still end up with ist krieg on my gooch.

They say to “write what you know” so it should be understandable to you that I just don’t know how to describe getting ist krieg tattooed on my taint because I didn’t get ist krieg tattooed on my taint— I got a tattoo of a vagina on my taint. And so what? Katy gets to go fly to fucking Zimbabwe and I’m stuck here in Orange County with my thumb up my ass trying to make new and exciting experiences for myself.

I’m just at a loss.