Morale: Desperate
Type of Exercise: Elliptical Trainer
This morning, while "jacking off" in the shower, I felt an intense emptiness that normally I would combat with a mixture of drugs and alcohol. But, as I crushed my morning protein shake and devised a surefire way to score some smack--nude, in the glistening sun--I decided I would fight my heroin urges and hop on the elliptical trainer instead.
I did half an hour of interval training and my bursts were so intense I feared a heart attack but welcomed the prospect of Death as the destroyer of all my personal and administrative problems. Wearing only my finest silk undergarments, my cock danced like a sweaty snake to the Velvet Underground who serenaded me through my lime green Sennheiser MX75 Sport earbuds.
In my final burst, I asked for only death or endorphins, but neither came. Semi-satisfied, I crushed a smoothie in the Astro Lab and tried to contact the planets. I have no plans for the rest of the day.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Training Log: 26 July 2010
Morale: Low
Type of exercise: Road cycling
Battling violent winds, I rode along the southern coast. I hated every moment. That cock Aolous was angry at me, all because I fucked his mother last night in a dream. I struggled to keep tempo while the wind battered me and I broke down into tears on the side of the road. Afterwards I felt like shit and vomited a little in the shower--one of those pukes where a chunk gets stuck in your sinus and you hack and hack and hack but it won't shake loose until you finally admit defeat and turn on some trashy television and you are rudely reminded that, oh shit, I have thrown up again and fuck the taste is awful I want to die you bitch Nature you bitch you bitch you whore.
Type of exercise: Road cycling
Battling violent winds, I rode along the southern coast. I hated every moment. That cock Aolous was angry at me, all because I fucked his mother last night in a dream. I struggled to keep tempo while the wind battered me and I broke down into tears on the side of the road. Afterwards I felt like shit and vomited a little in the shower--one of those pukes where a chunk gets stuck in your sinus and you hack and hack and hack but it won't shake loose until you finally admit defeat and turn on some trashy television and you are rudely reminded that, oh shit, I have thrown up again and fuck the taste is awful I want to die you bitch Nature you bitch you bitch you whore.
Monday, May 31, 2010
To Baby
Dear Baby,
Are you still mad at me because I called your pregnant clay god a whore? I told you, never worship a woman--a lesson that hit me like a tonne the summer I spent in Cyprus, masturbating compulsively in my monk's cell, never having any visions because I was drunk all the time (or at least 85% of the time). Alcohol for me is a surrogate spirit, but I must admit, it really gets things done on earth. Baby, it's how we met. We were drunk and wild and I’ve almost forgotten the sickness.
The monks and I would put on cosmic soap operas. I was always the hunky asshole/Neptune. After a row that ended with me tearing Myoki's fat Budha belly with a dessert fork, I fled to Canada, citing artistic differences. I knew that Neptune should be into bestiality--mostly cockatoos and parrots because of the tongues--but for some reason the thought disgusted Myoki. Touchy prick.
Canadians found me creepy because I stand too close. Well, yes, the English are a creepy breed. We are, after all, the ones who were afraid to leave.
But Baby, your smooth white English rose of an ass suits me fine. It's OK that you have no character--I just want to feel, taste, smell your fleshy Jupiters and oils. I think they can satisfy me, but, lest we forget, I’ve suckled the milk of paradise—come to think of it, I’ve suckled quite a bit. I'm sorry I told you we are not cats. We are. And I'm sort of into that these days. Let's be English cats and never leave the house. Let’s lie constantly.
We must destroy the pregnant figurine. Let's go into space. It will work out fine.
xoxo
- Tewksbury
Are you still mad at me because I called your pregnant clay god a whore? I told you, never worship a woman--a lesson that hit me like a tonne the summer I spent in Cyprus, masturbating compulsively in my monk's cell, never having any visions because I was drunk all the time (or at least 85% of the time). Alcohol for me is a surrogate spirit, but I must admit, it really gets things done on earth. Baby, it's how we met. We were drunk and wild and I’ve almost forgotten the sickness.
The monks and I would put on cosmic soap operas. I was always the hunky asshole/Neptune. After a row that ended with me tearing Myoki's fat Budha belly with a dessert fork, I fled to Canada, citing artistic differences. I knew that Neptune should be into bestiality--mostly cockatoos and parrots because of the tongues--but for some reason the thought disgusted Myoki. Touchy prick.
Canadians found me creepy because I stand too close. Well, yes, the English are a creepy breed. We are, after all, the ones who were afraid to leave.
But Baby, your smooth white English rose of an ass suits me fine. It's OK that you have no character--I just want to feel, taste, smell your fleshy Jupiters and oils. I think they can satisfy me, but, lest we forget, I’ve suckled the milk of paradise—come to think of it, I’ve suckled quite a bit. I'm sorry I told you we are not cats. We are. And I'm sort of into that these days. Let's be English cats and never leave the house. Let’s lie constantly.
We must destroy the pregnant figurine. Let's go into space. It will work out fine.
xoxo
- Tewksbury
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