Long Cold Years
It's been a little while since I've posted on here. I'd tell you that I'm going to be blogging regularly but just writing that, 'I'm going to be blogging regularly' makes me want to go punch that guy at the gas station with the man bun who told me he remembers how long it took to grow out his pathetic little man baby bun like we were bros because he has a shitty tattoo of a sun on his shoulder, so I won't say 'I'm going to be blogging regularly'. If you see that little shitbag SJW tell him I said 'You're welcome.'
I've spent the past two years trying to get the attention of my little fox, who as all young women who haven't had a real woman role model to teach them about the important things in life, ran away from something strong because she was scared it wouldn't last. So I started a business. A t-shirt company, art prints, that kind of thing. It's funny because all the same people that wanted free tattoos wanted free shirts. They told me over and over how great my stuff was as if I don't have eyes but they never wanted to pony up a dime. What's worse is that my little fox watched from afar. I'm not a salesman. So I didn't make a million dollars drop shipping like all the soft body round shouldered little millenials whose ethnicity is always in question. They mostly look sort of vaguely chinese and drive around in rented corvettes talking about how much they make dropshipping so you should take their master classes. I didn't take their classes. I didn't use their scam of getting people to sign up for a training class that wouldn't end up making them any money. I just filed away their faces for that lucky day when I see them in person.
On my birthday my little fox texted me for the first time in almost 2 years. It was good to hear from her. It was good to know she is doing well. As well as she can without me. Just like I'm only doing as well as I can without her. We texted for a week or so and then she told me she was overwhelmed. I guess my shirts aren't tight enough. My dance moves aren't gay enough. I don't have enough gel in my hair and I don't post pictures of my fake life all over Instagram. I'm not ashamed to be a white man. I don't give a fuck whether or not anyone likes me. Men are intimidating when you are used to dealing with men who aren't sure what to do with their pathetic little dicks.
She was not impressed with the business, so I closed it down. I don't really want to be a clothing designer anyway.
There is no replacement by the way.
I started writing stories, although to be honest I'm not sure she reads anymore. She's got some thing or another going on Youtube but I haven't watched it. I don't want to see her with other men. I've given up all my social media. Except Twitter. It's fun to tell people how not shocked I am when another fatherless black sports star beats his wife or girlfriend in public. As if history lies. Anyway, the stories are all to impress her. There isn't any point in lying. Not to her or anyone else.
I burned all the art I did before her.
I got rid of all my art supplies.
I haven't drawn anything new since Christmas time.
Christmas wasn't any fun.
Because I didn't get to spend it with her.
I wrote a book.
It's out now.
It's pretty good. Better than the usual garbage you see in print these days. I'm not a black trans lesbian who grew up in the ghetto so I can't get an agent. They don't care about talent. They bitch about people being racist or sexist or transphobic but they won't sign you if you're straight and white.
The world is amazing.
So I'm going to keep writing books.
I'm going to keep sending her the author proofs.
So that when whatever clown she ends up with shows his true colors she can read them and know that she is loved. She can know that someone out there however far is thinking of her.
If you're not into that sort of thing then fuck you.
If you dig horror and interesting characters and mind warping not reality then check out the books.
If you run into her tell her they are all for her.
And when I die bury me in fire.
amazon.com/author/muchodonchatz
I've spent the past two years trying to get the attention of my little fox, who as all young women who haven't had a real woman role model to teach them about the important things in life, ran away from something strong because she was scared it wouldn't last. So I started a business. A t-shirt company, art prints, that kind of thing. It's funny because all the same people that wanted free tattoos wanted free shirts. They told me over and over how great my stuff was as if I don't have eyes but they never wanted to pony up a dime. What's worse is that my little fox watched from afar. I'm not a salesman. So I didn't make a million dollars drop shipping like all the soft body round shouldered little millenials whose ethnicity is always in question. They mostly look sort of vaguely chinese and drive around in rented corvettes talking about how much they make dropshipping so you should take their master classes. I didn't take their classes. I didn't use their scam of getting people to sign up for a training class that wouldn't end up making them any money. I just filed away their faces for that lucky day when I see them in person.
On my birthday my little fox texted me for the first time in almost 2 years. It was good to hear from her. It was good to know she is doing well. As well as she can without me. Just like I'm only doing as well as I can without her. We texted for a week or so and then she told me she was overwhelmed. I guess my shirts aren't tight enough. My dance moves aren't gay enough. I don't have enough gel in my hair and I don't post pictures of my fake life all over Instagram. I'm not ashamed to be a white man. I don't give a fuck whether or not anyone likes me. Men are intimidating when you are used to dealing with men who aren't sure what to do with their pathetic little dicks.
She was not impressed with the business, so I closed it down. I don't really want to be a clothing designer anyway.
There is no replacement by the way.
I started writing stories, although to be honest I'm not sure she reads anymore. She's got some thing or another going on Youtube but I haven't watched it. I don't want to see her with other men. I've given up all my social media. Except Twitter. It's fun to tell people how not shocked I am when another fatherless black sports star beats his wife or girlfriend in public. As if history lies. Anyway, the stories are all to impress her. There isn't any point in lying. Not to her or anyone else.
I burned all the art I did before her.
I got rid of all my art supplies.
I haven't drawn anything new since Christmas time.
Christmas wasn't any fun.
Because I didn't get to spend it with her.
I wrote a book.
It's out now.
It's pretty good. Better than the usual garbage you see in print these days. I'm not a black trans lesbian who grew up in the ghetto so I can't get an agent. They don't care about talent. They bitch about people being racist or sexist or transphobic but they won't sign you if you're straight and white.
The world is amazing.
So I'm going to keep writing books.
I'm going to keep sending her the author proofs.
So that when whatever clown she ends up with shows his true colors she can read them and know that she is loved. She can know that someone out there however far is thinking of her.
If you're not into that sort of thing then fuck you.
If you dig horror and interesting characters and mind warping not reality then check out the books.
If you run into her tell her they are all for her.
And when I die bury me in fire.
amazon.com/author/muchodonchatz
Comments
Post a Comment