Monday, November 07, 2005

November 7th, 2005, Upload 1, Chapter 9 (14,881 words out of 50,000)

9.

Driving through Central Park, late at night and hardly any lights, drunk off my ass, doing ninety miles-per-hour. If I had kids at home that hated me, I would be smart enough to say that I’m lashing out for help, that my destructive behavior will either end once I seek out therapy or once I die in an exploding car. This, right now, is me just needing to really take a shit.

I don’t get this chick – I can’t get a read, at all, I don’t see her angle, don’t see where she’s coming from. Three dates in and she just seems normal, despite the whole turning down sex thing – maybe that’s her issue? Three dates is a bit tough to gauge but maybe she’s prudish for some reason. Maybe she was raped or sexually abused, that shit is damaged goods, if I can get a confirmation on that I think it’s safe to say I declare victory and go home. There’s never a good reason to get involved with a raped or molested chick – she can be the president’s fucking daughter and you would need to stay as far as way from that shit as possible despite the world of opportunity it would open up for you, you’re better off packing your bags and going for the senator’s daughter instead. A quick fuck, maybe, their guilt over what happened might drive them to be the type to have a complete emotional detachment from sex; they could be a fun fuck, but to deal with their day-to-day shit, no fucking way.

But this bitch, I’m getting nothing. I’m not even sure if it’s ok to take a shit at her place. We’re having some wine, watching this god-awful Jennifer Lopez movie that she wanted to rent, and the shits hit me like a fucking Mack truck. It’s the food – this chick has the down-to-earth perception thing, I called that at least, and she’s ordering up food from Chinese delivery joints – six-bucks for a fucking tub of General Tso’s chicken, I don’t understand how people can eat that and not shit all over the place. Who the fuck pays six-bucks for a meal? You might as well eat at McDonald’s or Taco Fucking Bell for that amount, at least this way you don’t have the illusion that your ass isn’t going to explode all over your leather seats on the car ride home.

I can’t even get a read, do I shit in her bathroom? Do I excuse myself politely? Do just fucking ask her if it’s ok that I drop a deuce in her crapper? I pretend I’m not feeling well, stomach cramps and nausea, she’s trying to keep me around, telling me that I can stay the night here and she can take care of me – what the fuck is that all about? Three dates in, maybe she’s fertile – I can see that. Maybe she was involved with some dude for years and he left her because her poisoned womb wasn’t capable of supporting life so now she compensates by taking this motherly position in all of her relationships. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t fucked yet? Maybe she looks at me like I’m her child, maybe her primal fucking mind is so strong that she can’t even discern me from a two-year-old baby that needs to suck her tit for nourishment – maybe her repeated miscarriages as a result of her strip-mined uterus has fucked her up so much that she has just become a –

No. No, she aborted, that’s what the fuck happened. She aborted and she feels guilty, I’ve met chicks like that, except they usually go the depressed route, she went all Mrs. Brady on the spirit of her vacuumed out child, transplanting it into the soul of any man that was stupid enough to position himself into her life. I know it sounds like I’m joking and in part I’m just entertaining myself or else I’d be shitting my pants but that shit could really fucking happen. Losing a child fucks bitches up bad. Some of the easiest scores have been off of bitches that lost a kid – especially the sudden losses due to negligence, like if the kid was run-over by a car or drowned in the pool – within months the couple is divorced, blaming each other for the death of their three-year-old bundle of fucking innocence, within weeks I’m plowing their face and giving them some sort of hope that this time around, with me, the fruit of their loins will actually be around long enough to start school. That this time she’ll be able to go to assemblies and watch her son ride a bike and play soccer and beg her for a fucking beagle. This time she’ll get to watch her son start high school, play football, tell her how much he hates her, how much she doesn’t understand him, how she doesn’t understand what love even is, if she did she’d still be with dad instead of lecturing him on his new girlfriend with the dyed red hair and the blowjob lips that accentuate her cum-on-me cleavage. This time she’ll be able to see her son go to college, get herpes, experiment with drugs, drop-out and get a job doing construction. She’ll get to see him knock some skank up, marry her, beat her, divorce her and pay child-support to the bitch despite the fact that she’s obviously not putting that money towards the kid. She’ll be able to get old while her child neglects her, puts her in a home, harbors nothing but bad feelings towards her for reasons that she’ll never understand – didn’t she do everything for him? Didn’t she sacrifice and give all that she can to ensure that her baby will have a happy life? I give her all this hope by simply existing, by simply being something her husband wasn’t – whatever the fuck she wants me to be.

Within hours I know what I can get from her; I see how she’ll play out. If it’s worth it I stick around and reap my reward for being her savior, for being her fucking salvation. If it’s not I use my out, always careful to not burn a bridge, you never know who’ll be your auditor or real estate agent. You never know who’s going to end up selling you your next BMW. You never know who’s going to be waiting your table or fixing your car or hooking up your cable. There’s more to life than blowjobs and pussy, that’s just the bonus.

So with Agatha, I wait it out. It’s usually the ones that take some time to present themselves that are the most rewarding in the end. I already have my network of lawyers and judges and fashion designers and computer specialists and restaurant owners and novelists and tax specialists and chefs and Broadway actors and real estate moguls and carpenters and auto body specialists and recruiting specialists and team owners and landscapers and bank managers and stock brokers and car salesmen and doctors and dentists and gym owners and coffee importers and image consultants and hair stylists and journalists and CEOs and CFOs and bakers and wine tasters and food critics and movie critics and anyone else who can in some way make my life more enjoyable.

Agatha is a nice break – a reminder of how hard it could get without the pressure of high stakes.

So I’m doing ninety, drunk, no lights, Central Park – I have to shit – I still haven’t figured out her deal – and despite how it may all look, I’ve never felt more fucking alive.

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