Saturday, November 05, 2005

November 5th, 2005 Upload 2 Chapter 6 (11,085 words out of 50,000)

West Palm Beach has never been this much fun.

One of the problems that people have, one of the reasons that they’re so easy to fuck with, is because they never look inside themselves. To them, everything is fine – they lie to themselves and tell themselves that their brains are functioning normally – that their interest in gay pornography is just to see how low society can go, it’s a fucking sociological experiment. Their need to hit their wife is genetically fueled aggression triggered by the fact that they lost their job. Their need to get piss-drunk and drive home doing ninety-five on back roads with no lighting is in no-way correlated with the fact that their kids are always in trouble, that they feel like they failed as parents. Their constant spacing out and surfing internet message boards, trolling for eighteen-year-old girls is fueled by the fact that they’re not challenged, that life is too easy for them, that their wife doesn’t supply them with what they need as if every chick should be happy to take it up the ass and coax a load of cum from your balls onto their face while saying how good it feels, how much they like it, make some joke about protein loaded face-cream.

All of this – everything that they feel guilty about, everything that they refuse to get help for because it’s not a real problem, everything that no fucking sane, well-adjusted person will ever consider to be normal behavior – all of this burying is what makes them the easiest targets in the world. Everybody buries something, everybody has their shame and their motivation behind their motivations – no-one acknowledges it – they all adapt to it, find ways to explain it all away as normal behavior. Blame people for not understanding. Make up politically correct phrases that attempt to explain away that they’re fucked up.

We all got our shit – I got my shit – but what empowers you, what really makes you see the world like I see it and what allows you to do whatever the fuck you want is the ability to understand your shit and control it – not allow other people to understand it and control it. That’s what separates you from one-hundred-and-fifty-million people in this county and if you know how to work it right, it’s what’ll separate you from three-hundred-million people in this county.

I have a handle on my shit well enough to know that, right now, West Palm Beach has never been this fun – especially not with Dave. Especially not at this fucking tiki-bar that he loves so much. Especially not with the surfboards on the walls and drunken college bitches with the fake IDs and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” blasting through their speakers. For fucks sake I’m drinking light beer out of a yard-glass and having a fucking blast. I have enough handle on my shit to know what really makes me happy.

After this we’re going to go to a strip bar – not a low-class piece of shit one where the girls don’t make you work for the extras, where they hardly even make you pay for them. We’re going to a classy place, a fucking Gentleman’s Club, where the girls won’t even come up to if you hold out a measly single, where they won’t even take it.

They’re high-class. They’re not whores.

I’m going to buy Dave lap-dances and blowjobs, by the time I’m done with him he won’t even be able to walk. He’s going to feel like he’s been kicked in the nuts repeatedly by a fucking mule. I’ll drive him to the hotel, drop him off so he can call his wife and hide his drunkenness – tell her that he’s having a good time, that he’s tired and needs to go to bed, that he’s been working really hard but he thinks we got the contract, he thinks this trip is going to pay off big time, he thinks his Christmas fucking bonus should be sizable enough to pay for that trip to San Diego she’s been talking about – they’re going to drop off the kids at his mother’s place and they’ll bike over the Golden Gate Bridge and eat clam chowder down on the wharf out of a fucking sourdough bread bowl. Then I’m going to go back out and score some fucking martini bar chick, have more fun than Dave ever imagined within his world of blowjobs and lap-dances, thinking it never gets better – not even knowing what he’s capable of, never knowing how good his life can really be.

Tomorrow I’m back in New York City. I’m in love with it again; that fucking city was born again. Saturday I have my date with Agatha. Fucking Agatha. Thought hard about this one, I haven’t had this much fun in years. This chick has a thing for being “down-to-earth”, you don’t take a chick like this to the Russian Tea Room or Tavern on the Green. You take her to get pizza. Philadelphia Cheese Steaks. Hot Dogs and a walk through Central Park. We’re going to Grimaldi’s, under the Brooklyn bridge, best poor-man’s pizza you can get – right on the water so a nice walk can follow, plenty of cabs around so we can make the quick break back to my place once she’s had enough of the fucking around.

Once I break her down.

I got her, I thought about all her moves. I know how to play her; empowered I know how to maneuver within her sense of importance – how to keep her from remembering that she actually works in a fucking Starbucks, making frappacinos for fake-o haughty-taughty white folks and the occasional Uncle Tom. Pretending that her life is something more than what she made out of it. Pretending she’s carefree, that she doesn’t stress over rent or loneliness or being somebody.

The only complex this chick has, on the surface, is this insane belief that she doesn’t have one.

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