JESUS WOULD BE COOL IF HE HAD GIANT TITS

"Factory workers were the future of mankind--as if slavery could bring anything else than more slavery."  --Jean Baudrillard

Johnny B's right.  The world is a shit place.  What we need now is god damned Beano.

THE GROWING SUNSET OF BURNING LADY FINGERS

Has anybody watched any movies from director Toshiaki Toyoda?  His films are fucking beautiful.

I cried after peeping Blue Spring for the first time.  I mean, I did watch it after a Halloween rave and was pumped full of ecstasy.  But the ecstasy wasn't even that good.

I've re-watched his movies a lot.  Nobody ever seems to know who the fuck he is though.  Not even the people I talk to from Japan have heard of him.

Seems both awesome and tragic.  Like walking in on your mother having a squirt session with some guy you've never seen before.

Also, what's a good online poem, like a recent one.  I can't seem to read anything I give a shit about.

WHITE PEOPLE LOVE JIGSAW PUZZLES

BLOOD RELATIONS

Tonight is the night before the day of contrived importance.  It is mired in nostalgia and consumerism. 

Right now, at this very fucking moment, people are sitting in a fire lit room surrounded by relatives they don't like and hardly know all for the sake of a religious holiday nobody actually gives a shit about.

But hey, presents.

The gift I gave myself was hearing a girl half my age moan while I sucked on her clitoris.

After that I took my dog, Little Dave, out for a walk.

During the walk we found a blanket and pillow laid out on the ground in front of a dentist office.

A schizophrenic man in a beige trench coat appeared on a bicycle.  He rode in a circuitous pattern while smoking a cigarette.  I think he was talking to himself.

In the distance a deep and low pop sounded.  Then another.  And another...

By the third I realized a gun was being fired.  The shots were rhythmic at first, then hurried.

Pop... pop... pop... pop... pop... pop... pop-pop-pop.

Feel certain the noise came from Hollywood and Western.  Suddenly sirens could be heard in every direction.  Seven in total, I think.

Needless to say Litle Dave and I made our way the fuck home.

A police helicopter is buzzing above my apartment like a horny mosquito now.

Merry Methmas.

//////////////////////SLEEPING DREAM

These search terms were used to find my blog this week:

jereme dean (6)
anakedblackgirl
disney channel characters fuck
disney channel girls fuck
how do i eat my own pussy if i'm not flexible
peach sex
weak-signal.blogspot

EAT YOUR OWN PUSSY BUFFET

Men seeking women - platonic.

My girlfriend is half my age and refuses to dress in hideously attractive clothing from the seventies.  I'm a very visual person and enjoy aesthetics, especially those of the feminine variety.

Looking for a girl to be my polyester model.  Very flexible with age and race; I enjoy all species of sugarbirds.  Must be willing to be an empty vessel for hours and endure scrutiny without falter.  In other words, plan on being dressed and undressed several times until the perfect combination of period clothing and human doll are matched.

I must be pleased.

Not looking for conversation.  Prefer a girl with soulful but vacant eyes.  No makeup unless I explicitly specify.

To reiterate, this is a platonic relationship; a kissing cousin of master/slave but without the sex.  In times of compliments no response is to be provided.  You exist to take direction.

Doesn't necessarily matter if you enjoy synthetic fabrics, burnt orange tones, bell bottoms and corduroy. No opinion is the optimal goal.

I desire only a perfect mannequin.

Email me if interested.  Please put the words 'I AM YOURS' in the subject line so I know you're not a bot.  All responses without a picture will be ignored.  Thanks!

jdean33442@gmail.com

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO CHEST HAIR

Been relatively not shitty this year.  Hoping a very kind, very fictitious man breaks in to my apartment and rewards me with this:

IN AN ALTERNATE REALITY JESUS CHRIST LOOKS LIKE DOM DELOUISE WITH A PUSSY

Stymie doesn't steal no pie.

OBESOGEN

Fuck, man.  Woke up today with extreme levels of stress.

So much panic.

I always get like this during midterms.

School is so hard!  Feel like puking and giving up or giving up then puking.

Really worried about my psych test.

Fucking worried.

Like shit my pants worried.

What if I don't pass?  The outcome will be devastating.

I mean, yeah, I'll still owe the same amount of money regardless.

OMG!  Don't get me started on student loans!

Thinking about owing such a large amount of make believe money with no tangible consequence for not paying it is too much for my head to comprehend.

Ugh!

Tired of the nightmares.  Just want school to be over.

Please.

I don't want to puke and/or shit myself.

Please?

CHACHI GONORRHEA

There's a scene in the movie Jackie Brown I keep thinking about.

Samuel L. Jackson and Robert Deniro are in a parked Volkswagon Bus having a discussion.

They are sitting in the front.  Sam's torso is turned, facing the driver's seat.  Bob keeping his vision straight.

The camera's perspective is from the back of the vehicle.

The location shown outside the windshield is a typical LA street, blurred.

Sam's demeanor is heated but composed, like he's been there before.

Bob is sort of aloof or just really stupid.  It's difficult to tell.

The topic at hand is a missing $510,000, money Deniro was supposed to bring back from a shady hand-off at a mall, money owed to Jackson.

Instead a nondescript shopping bag containing a dozen or so shitty paperbacks and $40,000 in bundled cash was brought.  The $40,000 on top obscuring the books underneath.

Deniro confesses to murdering Jackson's girlfriend in the mall parking lot after the exchange.  She was sarcastically teasing him, so he shot her twice, once in the stomach, once in the chest.

Her death isn't mourned.

Sam keeps asking, where the fuck is my money?

Bob shrugs his shoulders and mutters incoherently in response.

The tone is low-key considering the amount missing.

There is no soundtrack music playing but a latin influenced jazz song is faintly audible as background noise.

After being questioned like a child, Bob admits he encountered a mutual acquaintance during the exchange, a bail bondsman named Max Cherry.

Jackson makes a facial gesture like he just watched the final episode of Roseanne.

He loses his shit a little and starts yelling.

Deniro makes excuses but labels them reasons.  He doesn't seem affected by his mistake.

A gun not visible goes off.

Blood stains the inside of the windshield Bob was staring through.  He looks down towards his stomach.

Bob turns his head to make eye contact with Sam.

He contorts a surprised facial gesture, but there's a latent sadness in it.

Sam whispers, "What the fuck happened to you, man?  Your ass used to be beautiful."

The gun is raised, the barrel pressed to Bob's chest, another shot fired.

This is how I feel about America.

THE UNIVERSE HAS HIPS

Hey, who the fuck says there's nothing interesting on youtube anymore.



Also, I made the picture below.  Feel like I'm two-thirds away from being completely alt-lit.  Working on writing bad poetry about easily obtained pharmaceuticals now.  Please 'accept' me.

BITING RAZORS LIKE THE WAY YOUR MOTHER EATS COMPLIMENTS

I pray for the destruction of all things popular in an overpopulated society.

Because I care.

THE AFFABLE PISS CZAR OF YOUR DAYTIME MELODRAMA

on publishing:

I think the greatest motivation to never publish anything are the pictures where people hold a book written by an "'alt lit'" author in front of their face.

Some people take pictures with the book next to their face while drinking a cup of coffee.

The clever pictures are the ones where some other asinine object is used to obscure--you guessed it--a precious face, something quirky or mildly unnerving, like a butterfly net or a fruit.

Just seems mortifying to me.

A person using the physical manifestation of my hard work, a thing I've poured soul and creativity in to, being 'cute' and 'humorous', for a chance at momentary recognition.

Fuck that.

Truth be almost everyone in this reality practices pyrrhic compromise.

I don't get it.

in other news:

The image of a dildo riding a unicycle suddenly appeared in my mind today.  The plastic dick was the color of pink, like the old m.u.s.c.l.e. toys, had no legs, and swayed back and forth while keeping balance.

also:

Click this.

I'M A GOD DAMN DRAGON IN THE RAIN

I took the Myers-Brigg's test. 

Here's my score:

Introverted (I) 56.25% Extroverted (E) 43.75%
Intuitive (N) 58.33% Sensing (S) 41.67%
Thinking (T) 56.76% Feeling (F) 43.24%
Perceiving (P) 90% Judging (J) 10%

INTP - "Architect". Greatest precision in thought and language. Can readily discern contradictions and inconsistencies. The world exists primarily to be understood. 3.3% of total population.

Whatever the fuck that means.

Feel like I should try to change the world now.  I mean, I am supposed to be a kick-ass architect

Maybe I can build something rad and universally beneficial.  Like a port-a-potty that constantly smells like hot, fresh eggos.

Yeah.

Here's a picture of me being an architect in a parking lot after a rave:

The link to take the test if you want to be apprised of your metaphysical super powers:

 http://similarminds.com/jung.html

SWALLOW THE TURDS LIKE SWORDS

XENU DOESN'T WANT ME FOR A SUNBEAM

People have been sending treasures to my home.  Some of which I traded hash cookies for in return.

A sense of displacement occurs whenever I receive a gift.  I sort of panic a little and my mind thinks, "you're a piece of shit who deserves nothing."  Then I try to convince myself to accept nothing and be content.

I am content with nothing.  Seriously.  But I do appreciate gifts. 

It's difficult for me to just accept blind gifts though.  I feel better about accepting something if I give something to the person first, which is a monumental step for me. 

No shit.

Back in 2008, I did this thing on my blog where I gave away copies of books written by internet writers.  Each month a new author.  The only requirement for getting a book was to email me.

What I didn't tell people was that I was on unemployment, not paying rent and showering in cold water because I couldn't afford to pay the delinquent gas bill.

My depressed logic for doing the giveaway centered around the idea that other people felt deep loneliness, like I did, and maybe words in books would alleviate the feeling momentarily, which was an exponentially better use of the money than spending it on myself.

Most of the authors were appreciative of what I was doing.  A couple acted like selfish douche nozzles but those two always act like that: 'unsuprising'.

Those who received the free books were really appreciative too.

A lot of people, authors and book winners, wanted to send a small thank you, usually a book, back to me.  I immediately shot everyone down without stating a reason, which I think made people think I was a dick.

I wasn't being a dick.  Just felt severe hatred towards myself and the idea of receiving anything from anyone felt psychologically crushing. 

Try to imagine a 90 lb japanese girl swallowing 45 lbs of semen in one protracted gulp.  That's how I felt.

I'm sorry for potentially hurting people's feelings.

My blunder.

Anyways, like I said, accepting gifts is a huge change for me, even if I am exchanging hash cookies for those gifts.

Recently I received some art from Sam Pink and Tony Arnold, and wish beads with a hand-written instructional from Rachel-Noel, aka Raye.  Raye also sent some cookies and candied applies she made but those things are fucking long gone.

No body no crime sort of gone.

Thank you Sam, Tony and Raye for sending packages to my apartment.

Here is a picture of the treasures:

Totally down to exchange more things for things.  Email me if you feel like it.

EMBRACE THE BASEBALL BAT

Has a PSA ever worked, even once?

OBSEQUIOUS MIDGET WITH THICK FINGERS AND SMALL TITS

PLAYING DODGEBALL WITH TIN FOIL CHILDREN

A lot of people don't know I have a small part in the "Shoplifting from American Apparel" movie.  No clue if the footage made the final cut.  I don't think it matters.

Would totally 'bet the farm' that I'm the only obese human being in the entire movie.

Just a hunch.

I was really high on opiates and hadn't slept in a few days when the filming took place.

A t-shirt was provided as gratitude for helping out.

I only wear the shirt 'ironically'.  But I don't believe in contrived irony so I guess you could say I wear the shirt sarcastically.

Just discovered there's a premiere and reading next month for SFAA.

Here's a blurb describing the event:

Each screening will include prize giveaways, special guests, and a Q&A with zen teacher and actor Brad Warner and director Pirooz Kalayeh.

Guests confirmed for the LA screening: Brad Warner, Pirooz Kalayeh, Steve Roggenbuck, Mira Gonzalez, Alfred Rutherford, Andrew Crighton, James Roehl.

Guys, there will be prizes AND Roggenbuck!!!!

I just piss shat myself from excitement.

Almost certain I will be in attendance, high on psychoactive drugs, talking a lot of shit.

Should be fun.

NO MUTUAL EXPERIENCES TO SHARE

When I'm at a reading I think about suicide a lot.  No exaggeration.  I get this overwhelming feeling to escape or die.  Here's a picture of me avoiding a reading in Chicago last year around October.  

I felt like I wasn't a worthwhile human being during this picture because the people who allowed me to stay at their apartment freely were really excited about the reading.  They organized it and shit.  I spent about 5 whole minutes in the art gallery where the event was taking place before my mind started to lose its calm.  I then spent an hour and a half outside in the cold night, mostly watching the faces of the people inside through the front windows.  I couldn't identify with anyone's facial expression. I don't think my face has ever expressed anything similar, ever.  Watching the people through the glass partition was exhausting, not like physically, but emotionally.  I lit up a strong, pungent cigar.  People kept waving their hands in the air or covering their nose as they walked through my radius of influence.  Gena was with me.  I felt bad because she's small and has a vagina, meaning she has no natural protection from the chill of a midwest autumn night.  I sat down on a small cement step on the sidewalk and felt hopeless about life.  Gena left to seek warmth inside.  A short man with an excited body language stopped to inspect all the people on the other side of the glass window.  He asked, "what's going on in there?"  I said, "a reading."  The man asked, "who's reading?"  I said, "no fucking clue but you should check out a guy named Sam Pink.  He's from Chicago."  The man made a facial gesture like he was lying about his penis size to a stripper and then said, "yeah, I've heard of him before.  He's a really great writer."  I just stared back without saying anything.  The short man walked off thinking "that hairy dude totally believed me," but I didn't.  A larger, more crushing feeling of hopelessness descended on my soul.  I texted Sam Pink to tell him this guy said he knew who he was, that he was a 'great writer'.  No immediate response though.  I spent a few minutes watching the drunk people of Chicago walk in and out of several bars across the street, during this observation period I tried to alleviate all feelings from my psyche, which didn't work.  Instead my demeanor became agitated.  A black couple stopped to look at the reading and just stood dumbfounded, mouths open.  Like, it was a natural but synchronized act.  They started walking again.  As they passed where I was sitting I said, "fucking white people," in a low, sarcastic tone.  The couple began laughing and the laughter became louder as their distance grew.  I looked at my feet and stared for a moderate amount of time trying to not think about anything.  A trolley filled with drunk people drinking alcoholic beverages approached the street.  I felt like I was dreaming.  A few seconds later the trolley was gone so I stared at my feet again.  An image of unending sadness played through my mindspace.  Suddenly, I wanted to run, I didn't care where, just away.  Then my phone made a noise.  I opened the phone to see a response from a previous text I had sent.  It read, "sam pink: nigga, i'm a poet."

NO CANDY FOR A BOY NAMED LONELY

My first Halloween in Hollywood was the day I moved here. So I didn't really celebrate. Nobody told me about the parade. You know the one where over 500,000 people march down the street and close down all traffic. That night it took me 1.5 hours to go 1.5 blocks.

The next Halloween in Hollywood I walked down the boulevard. I could sense the eminent danger all around and decided to take my girl and friend to a bar. I had to pay the door man $40 because I was the only person legally old enough to enter. A few days later I read that we missed some gun fire by about 30 minutes.

The next year I can't really remember how I celebrated. I think I was at a rave or something.

This year I'm sitting at home feeling alone. The constant hum of a helicopter has been background noise for about two and a half hours now. Earlier I got in to an argument with a meth head who demanded I click his car in through the security gate of my apartment building. Leaving the door open in my neighborhood isn't wise, I guess.

 I just read 3 people were shot down the street around 10 pm, aged 14, 17 and 25. The 17-year-old absorbed a bullet in the chest. He's in critical condition.

The LAPD are wearing riot gear while cracking heads open on a street named Hollywood right now. This is truly their holiday.

Fights keep erupting.

I think people have this complete misconception of where I live, like during the day it's some magical place of sun light and movie stars, that if you just wander around with a smile then eventually you'll meet Brad Pitt or some other shit soul, and at night, like it's an everything goes party destination, like you can totally just snort cocaine openly and drink until you feel the need to rape.

People are dumb. Hollywood is one of the grittiest places i've lived.

You won't survive here. You're not strong enough. Stay the fuck away.

Trust me.

SCUMBAG AFFECTION

JUICED

THE WET FIRE OF A PAUSED DREAM

I'm tired of hearing/seeing people whine about their perceived pain.

None of you motherfuckers know how to suffer.

Pain isn't a migraine or death in the family.

It isn't a drug-addicted mommy or childhood of poverty.

Or failing at school or work or love.

Pain is an entirety, the no-memory of stagnate memory.

The eternity of a single emotion.

An unattained understanding with everyone but yourself.

Pain is visiting the terrified face of a smaller version of you from the hours of 6:30-8pm while imprisoned in a psyche ward.

& knowing you've spent the past 4 years strengthening someone who doesn't love you while neglecting the person who does.

Pain is colorectal cancer.

& without health insurance.

& the shit i'll never talk about.

Pain is.

THANK YOU FOR BEING KIND

I'm not doing very well. But I'm pretty much never doing well.

One person I love was released from a psych ward today while another person I love informed me that she didn't love me anymore.

My dog has explosive diarrhea and the apartment smells.

I'm an obligation to everyone I know.

The way a honey bee feels when it's trapped by a child in a small juice jug is how I always feel.

The farthest place I can travel is a destination I walk to.

Have a strong feeling to eat as many heavy opiates as possible then go on a long journey down a side street.

But I can't because I have to keep existing or the person I love who just left the psych ward will lose their mind.

Ultimately my sadness and pain doesn't matter.

Keep thinking "love is bullshit" which may seem frivolous but my entire philosophy is based on the tenant of true love.

Struggling to not lose my mind.

Struggling.

Struggling.

Fucking struggling.

I don't know if or when I'll feel like talking again. And, honestly, i dont know if i believe in talking to anyone anymore.

I often help people with their sadness to distract me from my own.

Love finally failed me.

AMERICA'S SOUL IS BURIED IN THE GRAVEYARD OF EXPIRED ENERGY DRINKS

I unearthed a plastic storage container from my closet with some childhood items in it

One of the items is a book I don't remember reading or buying.

The book has a bunch of short stories written in a southern affect.

It seems extremely shitty.

Hidden in the pages of the book was a knife.

So the book isn't so shitty, I guess.

The knife has a serrated edge.

There is a heaviness in it.

Manufactured in Oregon by a company named Gerber.

A triple x (XXX) stamp is on one side of the blade near the hilt.

The last time I carried this thing I was a teenager.

And homeless.

I stole it from a friend.

I felt really bad when I did that.

The kid's name was Wally.

He was the child of divorced parents.

His father owned a business reconstituting pallets.

His mother had large breasts, red hair and missing teeth.

She rarely left her bedroom.

Both were heroin junkies.

I remember one day I stopped by his mother's house in SE Portland.

Tired from walking on the streets.

Just wanting to sleep.

Wally was there smoking weed like he always was.

I think we were both 15 at the time.

He was really excited about something and wanted to show me what it was.

There was a large leather binder resting near his bong.

He opened it.

Inside were 14 knives.

All different styles and shapes lining both sleeves.

They were shiny all in their own right.

A skinhead friend had stolen them from a job site Wally told me.

I asked if I could have a knife.

"No."

He needed them he said.

The binder was closed.

His mother's weak voice came from behind a bedroom door.

She sounded like she hadn't slept in days.

Wally disappeared for a few minutes.

During this time I opened the binder again.

Out of the many I selected the least desirable.

And placed it in my right pocket with the tip pointing upwards.

The silver tab jeans I wore had accomodating pockets.

They were useful for stealing supermarket food and krylon cans.

Something I did frequently during those times.

I closed the binder just before Wally returned.

He said his mother wasn't feeling well and that I should leave.

I was really worried he would suddenly feel nostalgic and inspect the knives again.

He let me take a lungful of medicated smoke instead of saying goodbye.

I walked outside without a known destination

The rain broke my high.

I fell asleep in a park with my back against a handball court.

The knife clutched in my fist.

I still feel bad for taking the weapon.

But feel grateful for having it now.

I think I'll need to carry it once more.

Maybe soon.

A PANIC BUTTON MADE FROM THE HARD PLASTICS OF FALSE EXPECTATION

I accidentally clicked on a design template and now my blog looks like shit.  Blogger doesn't offer an easy way to revert back to the basic layout.

I see why people use wordpress and tumblr now. 

I will create a custom layout when I feel motivated enough to do so.  Until then enjoy Awesome, Inc.'s interpretation of an awesome blog template.

Bask in its ability to motivate your genitals.

Bask you mother fuckers. 

Bask.

BETWEEN YOU AND ME

there is 

your pussy 

&

the sky:

everything else,

 a choice.

NEW AGE PORNOGRAPHY HAS NO AGE LIMITATION

SIDE BURNS LIKE MEAT CLEAVERS

MOTHER TOMORROW KEPT ME IN A JAR UNDER HER SINK

Frank Sinatra spoke the words "I'm losing it" once. A few seconds later he died in a hospital bed. I don't know the affect of his voice because I wasn't there. I only read about it. The gamut of my childhood was spent thinking about death. 24 hours of death. Even in dreams; death. There were band-aid distractions. Like Street Fighter II, comic books and movie hopping on saturdays. The distractions weren't very effective though. Every thought in my mind was somehow linked to the concept of dying. I felt like I was staring at the ceiling in a room full of naked men who were aggressively rubbing their dickheads while watching me. I read that Zen monks have something called a death poem. The monks declare their future expiration date years in advance and are accurate to the day. On the day of their projected death they recite or paint a poem their entire life was used to compose. Then they die, usually while standing or sitting. I've been working on a death poem, too. A few years ago a doctor powered off a life support unit. It took only a button press. My grandmother's hand went purple while I held it in my hand. I cried really hard and repeated the words, "I miss my granny," when she stopped existing. Her death poem was "I want a cigarette." Maybe not. I don't know. Those were the last words she spoke to me before going comatose. A lot of my life has been spent fantasizing about dying. Always a quick and violent completion, stupid and romantic. The truth is death isn't majestic. I'm not a zebra being hunted by lions. I'm a pathetic human who's a protracted failure. When a person feels alienated and depressed there is solace knowing others who are alienated and depressed. Not because their sadness is mutual, but because of an intimacy with a feeling most humans don't understand or know. But when a person ceases being alienated and depressed the connection stops. They become whole and isolate themselves from everyone. Sometimes I feel like walking out my apartment door during an early morning to disappear. Not because I'm feeling angry, sad or selfish. More like a desire to help the people in my life become stronger.

MASTURBATING TO CHILDREN IS OKAY IF THE CHILDREN ARE ACTORS WHO ARE NO LONGER CHILDREN

I think the ultimate wet dream is an underage Nicolle Eggert lying on the floor dressed only in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles baby tee getting her cunt licked by a nude Alyssa Milano while the theme song to Matlock plays softly in the background. All other qualities of the dream are impertinent.

MEAT TABLE DRUMMER

THE STATUTORY BLIND DATE BEFORE OUR SHE-MALE TRYST

IF SOCIETY IS A HEGEMONIC PRISON, THEN BACON IS OUR CIGARETTES

Maybe the three people who read this blog have been wondering, why hasn't Jereme been blogging?!

Sorry.  Been trying hard to not die.  Haven't had much time to think.

Sam Pink's FROWNS NEED FRIENDS, TOO has been re-released by Lazy Fascist Press.  I wrote the introduction.  It's probably the only introduction I'll ever write.  Most likely the last piece of writing from me.

Just asked my hot pink Magic 8-ball if the intro is the last piece of writing i'll ever do.

"NO ONE CARES"

I'm really happy FROWNS has been re-released by a quality publisher.  I don't do high fives, but, maybe, to celebrate, I would high five someone out of excitement.

So, yeah, INTERNET HIGH FIVE.

We just bonded.

Hah, not really.  Fuck you.

Okay, we did bond.  A little.  Don't try to suck my dick over it.

The thing is I can't afford to buy Frowns.  My unemployment ran out.  I have thousands of dollars in delinquent medical bills, haven't paid taxes in over 7 years and owe 11 months of back rent.  What I do have is an excess of xanax and extended release muscle relaxers.

Being a scumbag poet isn't rewarding.

Email me if you're willing to trade: jdean33442@gmail.com

THE BEEF KISS OF LATE WINTER

I buy bottled water from the region furthest from the United States because, by some logic, it seems safer.

DROOPING DICK

NEVER ENDING FINGER FUCKING ON DISNEY CHANNEL

The way white men regard black women is the same way black women regard me, I think. Like I'm some exotic conquest or something.  Feel objectified and undervalued by this. I'm a sentient being with emotions and dreams.  I'm so much more than just a hairy ginger. God damn.

Psych.  I love when black girls treat me like a non-living object.  Hell yeah.

I remember this one time at the striptease club, I was watching a young caramel sugarbird do pole tricks on stage, my hand suddenly grabbed, raised and coached into a titty caress.

I walked freckled fingers down her dark-skinned abdomen while thinking, "PERSONAL TRIUMPH".

Later, a different dancer, this one thick and much darker, pressed her juicy rump against my lap after hearing me yell, "HEY GIRL!" as she walked by.  I felt confusion from all the ass crushing down on my crotch.  For real.  My brain was stifled by glorious black ass.

The word "FUN" was written in large block letters on the rear of her panties.  I know because I read. them

Suge Knight was there, too, moping around like the fat girl nobody wants to make eye contact with at a swingers party.  The dancers didn't acknowledge his existence.  Felt like a minor victory..

INTERNET HIGH FIVE

On a different topic nobody cares about, I decided to not read at the reading.  I'll be there, though.  Excited to hear Scott McClanahan and Elizabeth Ellen speak words.  Pretty sure XTX will be reading, too.  Very possible I'll engage in lecherous hair sniffing during the event.

Don't shower.

The reading takes place at 826LA on 8/14 around 7:30pm.  You should come.  Almost certain Gena is taking photos for the hunks of shit not attending..

Oh, yeah.

Gena had a cold today and felt ill from a spider bite.  She isn't dead, but out of sexual commission for the time being.  Kind of sucks.

Hollywood Daddy is rife with horny energy.

Poor me.

PEEL ME

My only desire in life is to live a good death.

EVERYTHING I SAY SOUNDS SARCASTIC

How are you.

Of course voting matters.

Where did you learn to suck dick.

Don't panic.

I'm afraid to die, too.

FACIAL GESTICULATIONS OF A WINTER BLOSSOM

I love this girl:

LET'S AGREE SCHOOL IS BULLSHIT.

Language was invented for the sole purpose of diluting force.  Goodbyes don't actually exist, orgasms do.

THE SIZE OF THE DOG DICK ISN'T IMPORTANT, THE SIZE OF THE INSECURITY IS.

I will utilize a silkscreen to create a t-shirt with the words "YOUR DICK IS SMALLER THAN MY DOG'S DICK" complimented by a black arrow graphic pointing downward to where my dog would be walking.  I will walk my dog in affluent neighborhoods while wearing the shirt.  Your children will know my name.

THE BEST PART ABOUT WEARING CORDUROY SHORTS IS NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR

JELLYFISH QUEEF CONCERTO

I have a reoccurring fantasy where I say "must see t.v." to a random person's face, then fire an uzi in the direction of their dumb smile.

THE HOUR OF PEACOCK LABIA

Recently my facial hair was out of control.  I kept imagining my mustache as a black girl saying "talk to the hand" at any food trying to pass through my open lips.  I also imagined my nose hair as the skinny cousin yelling "no ya din'nt!" to everything the black girl mustache denied.

My beard hair was the creepy uncle who likes to sit back, lick his lips and just watch.

Being a dragon isn't easy.

ABOLISH ALL MIRRORS

Let's talk more about the search query "Jereme Dean".

Every 6-8 months I google my name.  It's not like a calendar reminder is set.  Usually, what happens is I wonder if people are talking bullshit about me and check the internet.

I found a video on tumblr EE did.  The video is her reading a story I like from the Fast Machine anthology while wearing jean shorts and an american flag bikini top.  Fuck yeah.  The video is here.

I also found a blog named Deathcapades because of a post mentioning my name. At first I thought the blog author had a pussy.  After reading more posts I thought maybe the author was a guy/girl team.  Now I think maybe it's just a guy pretending to be a girl, or a girl pretending to be a guy.  Unsure, really. 

Having a difficult time believing a woman is capable of a sense of humor like the deathcapades author has.

Heh.

FLY LIKE A PARAPLEGIC OCTOPUS IN AN OCEAN OF SUGARED PISS

The old blogger required an additional module be installed for web logging.  I purposely didn't utilize it.  Statistics are for corporations and the insecure.

The new blogger has minimal web stats as an interface feature.  Kind of shitty because I log in to my account and there they are, these meaningless fucking statistics, complete with graphic charts.  What marble head has a tiny orgasm over this sort of data?

"34 page views today.  Feel validated."

The only good a forced stat counter has is seeing the terms searched to find my weak signal blog.  One person's search term: female masturbation at work.

Dear internet user, while I have masturbated on several occasions throughout my life, I do not have a vagina, nor have I encountered any vaginal masturbation while on the job   I believe it to be myth.  My apology for the momentary disappointment that is this blog.

The other search term people used to find my blog is "Jereme Dean".  Unsure why people keep googling my name.  I'm not important.  Shit, I hardly exist.  My ex-wife does like to keep tabs on my life because she's a big fan of my poetry, I guess--hi, Maggie!

Does a statistic exist to show the people who pronounce my name correctly when searching for it?

On an unrelated topic, when I smell an open jar of coconut oil a naked black girl materializes in my mindspace..

MY YACHT IS YOUR EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN

The introduction for Sam Pink's "Frowns Need Friends, Too." is a mustard fart away from being finished.  Writing it felt good.  The book is being re-released from Lazy Fascist Press.  Fuck yep.

Maybe you didn't know Ani Smith interviewed me a while back.  It's the first and only.  You can find it here: interview.  Yeah, those women in the picture have dicks.  Pretty sure theirs are much bigger than mine, too.

This piece was solicited by an editor for an anthology.  The original publication in Lamination Colony is the only publication I've felt good about.  I'm really thankful Blake published the writing.  Totally think I owe him an aggressive blow job as a thank you. 

The second part of the life outline will be finished soon, I hope.  Unsure what I'm going to do with it.  Email me if you have any ideas: jdean33442@gmail.com

Below is a picture of me and my dog, Little Dave.  He's the one popping a boner.  I named him after a poet friend of mine.  We should be on the cover of a soft-core homosexual porn magazine (if such a thing exists).

(beat your meat with old men)

THE PEACH LORD OF AQUATIC SEX DREAMS

Here are some random lines.  Maybe I'll use them in poems one day.  Probably not.

***
The best voyeurism is a woman performing the ritual of the refigerator pickle.

My day as a high school teacher was spent finger fucking female students.  Don't judge.

Nathan Lane gives lazy blow jobs.

Lady, I don't want to fuck but I'm willing to watch your facial expression while I choke you.

 Short, fat women with over-sized mammary glands are always afraid of large dogs.

Masturbating to the idea of immortality is what makes us human.

Ring pops are nature's sex toys.

The board game "Don't Wake Daddy!" was based on the real life game "Sexual Assault".

Pubic hair: grow that shit!
***

TEAM WORK IS MASTURBATING WHILE SOMEONE GUILLOTINES YOUR SOFT NECK

Have you ever walked around your corn syrup city and thought, "Man, this is some bullshit.  Where's all the hot snatch?"  It's here, with me, in LA.

Hollywood is a pussy mecca.  No shit.  My favorite pastime is observing women.  Not creepy, but not clandestine either.  Feel like I'm an affable lecher.

I like to imagine a woman naked, but replace her vagina with a harmonica.  A large chunk of my mental process is spent debating if a particular instrument is petite or over-sized  and clown like.

Any sort of movement by the female form stupefies me.  Running or jogging, dancing, fighting, whatever.  My brain shuts down all auxiliary function.  I could watch hips until I die.

Anyways, what blogs are worth reading these days?  I never stopped reading Sam Pink's blog.  Ani Smith has a blog--she is my friend and has a sensational harmonica, I think; pretty sure hers can sing two tunes at once, too.  Oh yeah, Blake Butler still has a blog.

Please don't recommend tumbler pages.  I hate tumbler.  All white space and picture overload isn't for me, unless it's a page of nothing but cock pictures.  I'm cool with that.  But the page has to have all sizes represented.  Massive cocks are only so interesting when those are all a person peeps.

Is Xenga still a decent place to hook-up with suicidal, under-aged girls?  Hope so.  For all our sake.


What should I read, fags?

WISH FOR HANDS

Chemtrails are the scientific equivelant of aerial herpes. 

America loves you.

No homo.

TRITE, LIKE YOU.

I was asked to do a reading.  Well, actually, the invitation was more of a casual demand.  The lady who asked insinuated she would obliterate my dick under the force of her foot if any response was returned other than an emphatic "fuck yes".

I said I had to meditate on the idea and get back to her.  She responded by calling me pussy.  Been cupping my crotch out of fear since.

It's not like I'm a curmudgeon shitting on everything because I hate myself.  I've attended numerous readings before arriving to a conclusion: readings are stupid because they are fucking stupid.

A writer with a small soul and giant ego reads a precious work to a gathering of fellow authors in an unmarked book store, or even worse, a bar, to assuage their inadequate self-image.  Yeah, man, totally sounds like a night of perpetual smiles.

The worst type of reader are the pricks who bask in the attention, force puke a slew of poorly timed jokes, and prattle about a soft existence.  Then they read in a tone like a librarian's climax.
The listeners are worse.  Needy writers with boring lives foraging for any spatial freedom to talk about themselves to other dickheads who share the same agenda.  Newsflash: validation is not my preferred drug, it's yours.

Another reason I'm against readings is my attention span has the circumference of a jellyfish pussy.  Bullshit bores me quick.  When I get bored I revert back to inner dialogue, which is mostly comprised of me shitting on popular ideas or my environment.  Then I vocalize. Then people get ass sorrow.  Then I'm ostracized.

I've spent my entire life making myself laugh to cope with loneliness.  I will not stop.  Everything is humorous.  Get over it.

Did you know there was a time when an author read his shit to a crowd of fans who genuinely wanted the performance.  Crazy, huh?

If one person, doesn't have to be a fan, says "hey jereme, I want to hear you read." without a hidden agenda, I'll accept the invitation--I will read.

Now is your chance.  Convince me.

Please.

MOLDENKE WOULD REMAIN

A friend got married a few weeks ago.  The wedding was in Malibu.  I'm a misogamist who believes in relationships, who also believes in love.  So yeah, I was in attendance.

Usually, I wouldn't attend such a thing.  I loathe weddings.  The ceremonies involved are insulting to anyone with any sort of intelligence, like all ceremony is, and the emotionally charged women terrify me.  Fucking TERRIFY me.

My invitation wasn't met with excitement, only because I knew I had to compromise my value system to support a friend.  Most people wouldn't benefit from such an allowance.  But this guy is my friend.  I heart him and shit.  His girl is super awesome, too.

The idea of me wearing a suit and tie wandering around a stupid church with a feigned smile provided moderate anxiety.  I kept thinking, am I really going to be a bitch and do this?  The answer: sort of.

The issue with the 21st century is that nobody declares themselves anymore.  People shut up, look down, and ride the hegemonic wave of consumer slavery because convenience and safety is just that.  We, the civilized, are a generation of coddle shit squishes. 

"You know, like, hey, ipods and Michael Bay movies aren't that bad."  Yeah, they are--fuck you.

I stand for shit.

The only way I could feel good about attending the wedding was by protesting the idea of marriage, to some degree.  Not in a dickhead way, though.  Like in an affable scumbag sort of way.

My initial idea of protest was to sport a 12-inch black rubber dick with a chin strap as a 'top hat', a cock ring 'monocle' and a massive double-headed dildo 'staff'.  Basically, the valley version of Mr. Peanut.

The outfit seemed cumbersome.  I didn't do it.

The next idea I had was to bring an ounce of cocaine and 5 naked strippers to the wedding.  Maybe do some body shots off white children or something.

Then I remembered how completely annoying strippers are.  They usually have cold skin despite their sweet tans, too.  Freaks me out a little.  Like their soul is so eroded body heat doesn't work.

Plus, who the fuck wants to share cocaine?

After much deliberation, I decided to wear a costume.  Dragons are special to me.  They symbolize individual strength, a force against all things.  Looking cool was a determining factor, too. 

So yeah, I wore a dragon costume to a wedding.

People liked the outfit.  The bride and groom genuinely seemed to like it.  The kids liked it.  Of course, haters gonna hate.  So I gave the sour pussies a bright, green fuck you to really hate on.  They devoured that shit.

The wedding was nice.  It wasn't a normal ceremony.  And didn't even take place at a church.  The bullshit part was minimal.  Approximately 15 minutes.  Maybe it was longer.  I got there an hour late.  Everything else was pure party.

I like pure party.

As the night went on and alcohol at the bar waned, more and more people had the courage to ask me exactly why I was dressed in costume.  It was the best part of the night.  I told 15 or so people exactly why I was a misogamist, why I believed in love, why I didn't waffle on my values, and why the protest.

Some people got 'it', other people had horrified facial expressions and avoided me the rest of the night, others just wanted to pet my tail.

Fun night.

Gena looked very fuckable and took some pictures--like she always does--as a document of my life.  Here's a picture of the bride and me making a heart shape where the groom's stomach is supposed to be:

HEAD SHOP DRUGS ARE THE FIRST DATE ANAL OF TODAY'S YOUTH

What the fuck is innocence?

SIMON SAYS: IF YOU HAVE A VAGINA AND YOU KNOW IT, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Feminists, describing your sex life is as rebellious as a dog fart in a back alley.  Find another topic.

Write a lesbian version of fight club.  Or a novel with an amputee protagonist who doesn't wear makeup.

Or a short story about a semi-truck driver moonlighting as an arm-wrestler.

Or some flash fiction with no reference to menstruation.

Please stop writing about your pussy.  This isn't the sixties.  Contrary to popular belief, your jelly roll isn't interesting.

All pink inside.  We know.  Fluids.  We know.  Flatulence.  We know.

Also, when did this empty formula become law: woman + writing = feminist ?

I thought the word feminist held more meaning than a label to boost book sales.

Everyone stop labeling.

God damn it.

Cocaine.

I'M BETTER THAN YOU BECAUSE I LIVE ON A HILLTOP AND DRIVE A SPORTS CAR WITH HALOGEN LAMPS.

I was asked to write an introduction to a book of poetry.  I'm excited, except I don't think I've ever actually read a book intro before.

I have tried.

The introductions I've attempted are always boring or interpret the work before I've read the work.  I don't understand the need to ruin the orgasm--people love to step on dicks.

And they usually read like a preview to a michael bay movie, sans explosions, as narrated by a narcoleptic wilford brimley.

Has anyone, ever, read those first 3 pages and thought, "GOD DAMN, I MUST BUY THIS SHITTY BOOK OF WORDS RIGHT NOW!"

The magic 8-ball says no.

So, yeah, I have no fucking idea how to write an introduction.  Or even the root point of one.

Think I'll write a bunch of reasons why a person shouldn't read the book.

And maybe a casual mention of burritos.  Maybe.

Fuck sales.

Cocaine.

PARTY SCAR IS MY GANG NAME

Drugs I've used since I actively blogged and now:

Alcohol

Adderall

MDMA

Vicodine

Cocaine

Chemicals of unknown origin

Marijuana: sativa

Hash: cold water, oil & wax

Nuvigil

Provigil

Pharmaceuticals (various)

Piperzine

Psilocybe cubensis: California Golden Caps

GHB

LSD

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Ecstasy

Roxicodone

PROM WAS NEVER ABOUT DANCING

I hear blogger is dead and tumblr is where the cool kids go to breed.  So yeah, I'm blogging again.  This area will become aesthetically pleasing after my colon menstruation acclimates.  For now, gaze the emptiness. 

Why am I blogging again?  I don't actually know.

When I think about my motivation for blogging a chubby stripper sucking hot cheeto dust from auburn whorls materializes in my mind space.

And when I think about thinking about my motivation for blogging a schizophrenic man wearing an expressive Darth Vader mask watching a late sunrise materializes over the previous image in my mind space.

When I attempt to think anything more about the subject my mind space turns to soft shit.

What I’m actually saying is Jim J. Bullock for the win.