Trauma Dumping on Christmas
Thought I'd lighten the mood a bit with this one.
This year it’s not Christmas it’s Wednesday, it’s just another fucking Wednesday in which I wake up, alone in my van, squirm out of bed and resist the urge to piss on the sidewalk, and google “coffee shop near me” —
except today it takes 3 tries to find one Open because it’s Christmas Day, and the people who work at coffee shops have families, and so they’re all closed, and why don’t you just go be with your family you sad filthy homeless bum!?
I almost did go be with my family, I swear,
Just after I came inside that 19 year old virgin bitch in Sacramento, completing my latest sexual mission, on Monday the 23rd, I had this beautiful thought:
I should go surprise my family on Christmas Eve!
Denver can’t be that far from Sacramento— what if I just drove 16 hours straight to Denver right now and I arrived on Christmas Eve and surprised the hell out of them, and I made it home just in time for Christmas?
Yeah it might cost $100 in gas and destroy my 20 year old van and I might even slip & die in the snow (lol), but it’d all be worth it to see those big bright smiles on my mom and little sisters’ face when they came downstairs to “pick up the package I sent” but instead of a package it was me, my presence, the greatest gift of all, I had finally come home!
But I didn’t do that. Why? Cause I’m broke. I hate to admit it guys because then this whole blog starts to feel like one big plea for your five dollars a month or whatever and trust me I know it’s starting to kill the vibe in here but to tell you the truth I’m fucking broke.
You know what I got this year for Christmas? Nothing. Fucking nothing. I have no mailing address, I live on 359 Homeless Ln, on Homeless Avenue, Zip Code 00000, I’m fucking Nowhere Man, even if someone wanted to send me something they’d have nowhere to send it to.
But also no one would, because I’m losing all my friends, because I’m dedicating my life, these precious years of my mental and physical prime, to this deranged exhibitionist smut, my Beautiful Dark Autistic Fantasy,
I’m spending eons in DMs with broken women and driving to their apartments and asking them 20 questions and then pointlessly destroying their tight little asian pussies in yet another desperate, retarded attempt to feel some simulation of human love.
And you might think all this sex I’ve had is some kind of gift, at least, but it’s not. The best readers do not envy me one bit. They see all this for what it really is— a good dark circus. They’re like me, they can only laugh when somebody falls down some stairs, or sets themselves on fire, or shoots up a movie theater.
and I see you, on the other side of the screen. I see you people who don’t reach out, who do not comment— the lurkers, these are the people I write for, the people I live for, I do it all for the lurkers. And well here you go, lurkers, this is my gift to you.
I’m kidding, of course, this is a joy to do— I spend all day making myself laugh, like The Joker, or probably like that Luigi kid did before the Acid Demons whispered in his ear telling him that his time is now and that he should disrupt the increasingly tenuous moral fabric of our society by putting a bullet through the brain of somebody’s Dad in cold blood, To Prove a Point, or whatever.
Forget Luigi, I’m getting worked up over pixels on a screen– that’s not real. What’s real is that today is Christmas and I’m alone in Starbucks and I’ve got white noise blasting in my headphones so it feels like I’m flying,
But this year it’s not even Christmas, it’s just another fucking Wednesday, it’s not like when you were a kid, out in the woods with your Dad, dragging a fresh-cut tree through the snow… back into your house where you lived with your two sisters and your Two Parents Who Loved Each Other before the housing market crashed in ‘08 and the bank took everything, EVERYTHING,
Back when the house was warm and you strung lights on the tree and you watched Elf (2003) and you opened gifts and you ran around playing make-believe and you were on the phone in the kitchen with your Uncle Dave who was pretending to be Santa Claus but you were only half-sure that it was him,
and you had no idea the lengths your parents went to every single year creating real-life magic just for you and now you’re appraoching tears in the fucking Starbucks ‘cause you’re all scattered now, none of us can make any fucking money,
ever since that one Christmas when there were no presents under the tree (cliche i know) and so your parents had to explain to you that “things are tough right now” and you realized, all at once, that 1. Santa is not real, 2. God is not real either, and 3. We are Poor,
and so you spent that whole entire Christmas day crying on the bedroom floor and your dad was addicted to booze and pot and casinos, and you had no idea but that’s why he could never keep a fucking Job, that’s why your mother grew to despise him, why she started yearning for the love of another man—
but she was too empathic and kind to go fuck some other guy in front of her kids, and so she stayed with Dad through it all, and we kept on living together every year while every subsequent Christmas got steadily less cheerful and sweet,
especially once we moved away to a tropical place where it does not snow and the people are brown so nobody really feels the true spirit of Christmas anyways,
and now 15 years later here I sit alone at this Starbucks in Palms California on Wednesday December 25th at 10:51 AM destroying my fucking keyboard, tweaking out on meth, trauma-dumping into the notes app for the amusement of my 1.5k-strong depraved and growing coalition of Substack internet subscribers,
When’s the next slut review
I want to write a whole ass empathetic paragraph to help you deal with your addiction.
But we all know I would just be making a fool of myself.