Day Thirty-Two

Skype was interrupted by Todd last night.

Katy asked what was going on but my phone started ringing. Todd, again.

Who is it?” she said.

“Nothing, I said. “Nobody.”

Todd has started a blog— as I’ve found out via facebook. Here’s his most recent post:

Me and Charlie haven’t been getting along recently so I decided to call him from the very same phone I took an awesome picture of Kurt Fucking Angle whilst following Kurt Fucking Angle around the mall because it’s not often a wrestling superstar like Kurt Angle visits the public arena. I figured Charlie would at least be excited as a gay little boy should be.

“Who’s Kurt Angle?” he said through my holy phone.

“It’s Kurt Angle, dude—Don’t you remember? I think it was ten, twelve years ago. Rowdy the Rodman Piper threw his Olympic medals into the Hudson at Hell in the Cell XVI.”

Charlie still didn’t know what I was talking about so I followed Kurt Angle to the bathroom and then masturbated in the handicapped stall. I’m not gay—I was just really excited and I didn’t want Kurt Angle to turn around while I was following him and he see me with a boner.

Today was also the first day I tried supermarket sushi. No women approached me because supermarket sushi is kept at the front of the supermarket.


Sound familiar? I didn’t even speak to Todd on the phone and now he’s making shit up about the things that we’ve said to each other. Uh, and the supermarket sushi thing? I did that first. I was the one that came up with it and wrote about it first.

Fucking hack, I can’t believe it.

And another thing: I know who Kurt Fucking Angle is. And it wasn’t Rowdy the Rodman Piper at Hell in the Cell XVI— it was Macho Man Randy Savage who did the deed.

Todd better not run into me conveniently in the next seven posts, I swear to God.


Aaron4 hasn’t returned my calls in three days. I’ve drank all the beer and smoked most of the weed. Chaz let me nig a few bowls but now he’s running low, too. We don’t know what to do. I mean, if Aaron4 was going on vacation he’d tell me, right? And you’d think he would text or email me his new number if that changed. Do drug dealers even have business email? I’ve never seen one, come to think of it.

Groupon for weed would be great, too. I’d murder a person to see groupon for pot— Groupot, if you will. Hell, I’d murder somebody to see groupons for murdering somebody who could make groupons for weed a thing. Maybe there’s a kickstarter just for me out there.

And now all I want to do is talk to Katy. I’m getting worried about her and the things she could be doing with that rockin’ body of hers.

She was already signed on Skype when I finally got my laptop set up. Her most recent status update on Facebook was, by the way, “tired of all the mexican food in Argentina”. Katy worries me sometimes.

We were having some incredible sex in her car once and she whispered into my ear, “I want you to cum inside me” and I was like

“Sweety, I’m wearing a condom. Do you want me to, uh, cum through it or…” And taking off the condom was going to be so unsexy in the back seat of a dark car that it would have involved me being in the unsexy position of having to pull the condom off of my uncircumsized penis as if it were some kind of diseased leach and then disposing of it and then getting back into the moment where she’s interested in me coming inside of her.

Katy started today’s Skype session in a familiar way: I couldn’t see a goddamn fucking goddamn thing.

“Take the sheet of paper away from the camera and just tell me what it says,” I said. Katy’s visage flooded my bandwidth.

“It’s a wedding invite,” she beamed.

“Who’s getting married?” I asked.

“Sure you want to know?”

“Sure you want to hear about my Saturday?”


“Nothing— just tell me.”

“It’s your ex,” she said, “Your ex-girlfriend Samantha.” This was indeed news. Sam was my ex-girlfriend, sure, but she was also— or is also— friends with Katy. They have nicknames for eachother. Even Katy and I don’t have those for each other. This was serious.

“I’m so happy for her,” I lied. What a slut. How dare she find true love before me? “Who, I said, “Who is the lucky guy?”

“Some guy named Sam. I think he was her rebound from you.”

Seriously? Who rebounds to marriage? And she’s been dating her rebound for five years? And her rebound has the same name as her? Come on. That’s not fair at all.

“Good for her,” I said. So happy for her. Just tickled. Glad somebody finally wanted to lock it down with Milk-Breath. She, by the way, had milk-breath. That’s why I we broke up. I mean, that’s why I broke up with her.

Update: In a fit of relative sobriety I let Katy know I’m moving to Truckee.

“I’m moving to Truckee, I think,” I said. I knew but let her think I was only thinking of it.

“What’s a truckee?” she said.

“Cold place in Northern California.”


“My parents called me today,” I lied, “and offered to send me to college up there.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah, I really wanna do this,” I lied again.

“Good for you,” she said, starting to balloon up like her old self.

“We’ll find a way to work this out,” I continued to lie.

“Sure we will. This will just turn out to be another adventure.”

“Yes, an adventure where I go somewhere and you stay in the same place doing the same things every single day.”


“Day in, day out.”

“No, I didn’t hear you.”


And that was that.

Day Twenty-One

Haven’t been out of the house since Crack-Fest 2014. It was a one-day thing buy my mind is still reeling. I mean, man, I could get a lot of shit done smoking crack. I didn’t get a lot of things done but still, it’s the crack-thought that counts, right?

It made me wonder why stepping on a crack is such a big deal for your mother’s back. What is the correlation between stepping on cracks and my mother’s spinal column? Instead of “step on a crack and break your mother’s back” it should be “knock your mother’s picture over and break your mother’s back”. That makes much more sense to me. I knock my mother’s picture over at least twice a day— sometimes on accident— and nothing bad ever happens to her. Then again, bad things don’t happen to people who are already dead.

Katy and I got in a fight over Skype yesterday. It wasn’t much of a fight, though, since I’m the only one thinking we got in a fight in the first place. She told me she went on a “kinda date” with some guy. The girl said she didn’t even know it was a date until the guy went in for a kiss.

“He doesn’t even speak English, Charlie; don’t worry,” she told me. So I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t worry so well that my internet accidentally turned itself off by itself and we never finished the conversation. That’s how we do passive aggression around here.

So what if he doesn’t even speak English? I consider that cheating. It is cheating so far as I’m concerned. Who the fuck goes on a date with another person when you’re already dating Charlie Brown? Not the future Katy Brown, that’s who.

Morgan’s throwing a party tonight. Going to go to that and see what’s up. Burn off some steam and try to forget all of this. I’m out of weed again too, so maybe somebody can smoke me out while I’m there.

Ugh. Carl is texting me. And Todd called again.

Day Ten (2).

I miss a lot of things about Katy. I miss Katy, for one. I miss the way she used to laugh— although I missed that long before she left; she stopped laughing weeks ago.

I miss her smile— another thing she didn’t do often around me.

I miss…the sex. We’d whisper sweet nothings into each others’ ears:

“Beggars can’t be chooser,” we’d whisper, together.

“I’m going to quit shaving my armpits,” she’d whisper.

“Why would you do that?” I’d whisper-ask.

“It’s an artificial social construct and I don’t want to be held down anymore.”

“Your armpits are a decision we should both make together.”

“The both of us? Fuck that, it’s my body,” she said.

Katy began to get larger, in my very own arms, no less. She always seemed to gain weight when she was angry at me. “Stop getting angry,” I said, “Nothing sexually or emotionally helpful comes from it.”

Katy seemed to shed off a bit of her jiggle almost immediately— especially from her chin area. I petted her slowly to calm her down some more.

“That’s a good— good baby, what an inspiring feminist she is,” and she fell asleep like how an angry cat would. “Let’s bang and talk about it in the morning.”

So that’s what we did. We banged and didn’t talk about it in the morning.

This whole Katy going out of town thing has been about a lot of firsts. For the first time in years, for instance, I get three paychecks in the same month. What luck!

So for the first time in three years I decided to stay in on a Thursday night and not spend any money. And for the first time in ever I decided to do my taxes— and actually did them. And I owe the government $201. What luck!

While doing my taxes I called Katy on Skype to see how she was doing and her tits. The call rang for thirty (30) seconds until it finally picked up. It was a difficult thirty seconds— she could have been finishing a guy off for all I knew.

An old lady answered. She had wrinkles and did not look happy.“Katy,” I exclaimed, “What happened to your face? We are breaking up, holy shit, what has Argentina done to you?”

“Hola Charlie,” Katy’s voice said from off-screen. Everything was coming together. “That’s my—,” she started, but I cut her off.

“It’s your grandmother!” I exclaimed. Thank goodness, that was a close one.

“No,” her grandmother said. Her face got older and angrier looking, “You do not call me Grandma . You call me Blanca.”

“Really? You want me to call you White? Like, White Lady? Grandma Pelota, como se dice ‘that’s doritos locos’ en espanol?” I asked.

Katy pushed her Blanca aside and took the center of the screen.

“Hey love,” she said.

“It’s so good to see you sweety,” I said. “It’s been ten whole days.”

“Did you notice anything different about me?” she asked.

To be honest, I was just going to say she lost weight but I hadn’t noticed that…I figured maybe I wasn’t able to tell because of the camera or something. So I told her that.

“No,” she shot back, “I dyed my hair.”

“Katy, I love you but I can’t tell on Skype. You dyed your hair right before you left; I’m not going to be able to tell the difference on Skype,” I calmly asserted.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Oh no, I thought. Do we? “Do we?” I asked.

“Yes, we haven’t talked to each other in nine days. We need to at least talk to each other.”

“Well if that’s your rationale then OK; We don’t have to talk. We should talk. But that’s still subjective—we should talk because it would be good for our relationship. Now whether or not our relationship is good for us is a matter of objectivity as well. So for our own selves, should we talk to each other?”

“I can’t hear you,” Katy said, looking down, “You’re breaking up.”

“I know, I’m trying to,” I said.

We talked in circles like this for about an hour before we told each other that we loved each other and good night. She kept mentioning how sad I looked and I told her how it had to do with me missing her. But that was only half true—actually, it was about 13% true; I was 86% unhappy because of my taxes, 13% unhappy because she was gone, and 1% unhappy with my upbringings as usual because fuck you dad.

Day Two (2).

No response from Katy yet. I mean, we’ve texted but she hasn’t had time for Skype. So it’s not that I don’t know she’s safe, it’s that I can’t be sure she hasn’t been fucking Argentine men for 24 straight hours and I’ll know once I look inter her eyes.

Bryan and Jeremy want to take me out to bars so that I can “wingman” for the two of them. They think I’d make an excellent wingman but it’s really difficult to wingman for a guy with a girlfriend and a 27 year old with his virginity. Nobody wants to date somebody who isn’t single and another dude who always has been.

Katy’s been the first girl I’ve dated that couldn’t be compared to a dilapidated barn. In fact, the only time Katy seems fat is when she’s being a complete bitch. Like right now, the bitch.

Listen— I don’t plan on cheating on Katy unless I’m sure that she’s cheating on me or planning to cheat on me. And right now it seems like no face-to-face contact in over 24 hours is groundwork for cheating.

I’ve read some of her texts and she likes going out to coffee with old classmates of hers I’ve never met or even heard of before. Male classmates. She solicits them first, too. It’s like she’s trying to hop ship but won’t do it til she finds one better than my partially capsized schooner.Our partially capsized schooner.

To be frank: I don’t trust her. Maybe she shouldn’t trust me either. After all, I went to the supermarket today and was approached by seven different women and ended up getting all their phone numbers. And usually I’d dress up like a Safeway employee to do that but this time I was in my civvies.

Kind of a dick thing but at least I haven’t been fucking Argentine dudes for 24 hours. I have reason to believe she’s not above doing that— one of her friends told her to sleep with Argentine dudes or else she would be disappointed in her. She said this in front of me.

Katy didn’t say she would. But she also didn’t say she wouldn’t. The whore. What am I supposed to think?

Maybe it’s time to hop ship, myself. Suck off some Argentine dudes. I mean— chicks. Suck off some Argentine chicks.