A man's attractiveness should be based on how little he works. The less he works, the more attractive he should be.

"Oh my God! He is, like, SO HOT!!! He hasn't had a steady job in over five years! I want to fuck him right now."

Let's change our standards to the above! Wouldn't that mess with the power structure? Wouldn't that turn reality upside-down a bit? Why not? We have nothing to lose!

Speaking of that, I still have not mowed my lawn. It is NOT my fault this time. I will probably have a lawnmower by tomorrow.

Still, I could never understand the bourgeois obsession with nice yards. I mean, who cares? And why are Mr. and Mrs. G afraid of me bringing down their property values? My yard has nothing to do with them! If that's just the way things are, why should I be held responsible for an insane system?

I was always idle. I always hated yard work if it was done for a purpose. Yard work is only fun if it is done for no reason at all - if nothing is accomplished.

My OCD Project

This past Saturday I spent most of the day with someone I care about very much. We were housesitting. We spent the day and night together and I even prepared barbecue. I was HAPPY. Then I started OCDing about time. That this moment will pass and one day we will all grow old and die. I want nights like last Saturday night to last forever. This is much of the reason I have studied magick and mysticism - I am looking for something that is permanent, the astral plane, a fixed, eternal Platonic world. This is a constant obsession and the reason why I cannot watch movies like "Up" (sorry for the dig and one person who reads this blog will know who I am "digging!")

Yes, time does pass and, yes, we will all die someday. But why allow OCDs about it to ruin the present, which is all that we have?

My other OCDs have to do with sex and all the other aspects of human life that make life worth living. Orgasms (much to my existential and ontological torment) are also temporary. And if they were eternal, wouldn't even I (who can jerk off ten times a day) need a break?

A lot of the sex and food-related OCDs were related to the anhedonia I experienced while in an extremely profound depression. Now that my depression is lifting I realize that I can enjoy all that I have ever enjoyed or been able to enjoy. Another great thing about my study of magick and mysticism is that I have come to realize that one can eternally experience and enjoy both the journey and the destination.

So to treat my existential and ontological OCDs to exposure therapy I have decided that I will read Schopenhauer's "The World as Will and Representation." Schopenhauer was the arch-pessimist. I will read the book cover to cover and resist all compulsions.

The G's (my sexy next door neighbors) are apparently fundamentalist Christians, probably Jehovah's Witnesses.

But they are hypocrites! Nearly 4 years ago Mr. G aka "the Cuck" (because I imagine him to be one in my fantasies and - what the hell - he probably is one) refused to loan me his lawnmower. Well, then don't complain if my lawn looks a bit shaggy.

If he was TRULY a follower of Jesus Christ, he would have given me a hug and said: "My brother, my brother in Christ. I will live by the words of my Savior and love you as I love myself. Of course you may borrow my lawnmower. What is a lawncare appliance in God's world? The love we share in Christ is so much more important. Borrow my lawnmower! Borrow it anytime. Store not treasures upon this earth where rust and moth doth corrupt!"

This is how EVERY Christian should be. Why? Because it doesn't matter what one believes as long as one's belief is AUTHENTIC!

If Mr. G cannot be 100% Christian than he should be 100% Satanic.

In that case he should say: "Forget about the lawnmower. Mow it when you get a chance. I do not have to deny kindness to you, but I can if I so choose. Why not experience the pleasures of the flesh with my wife and I? Oh, to see your dirty phallus plunge into my wifes Venusian loins! May I be the cuck? Whatever gives one pleasure should be freely indulged. I want to watch. Can I place my face close to your penis to see the atrocity? Please! Please! Please! Hail Satan!"

Be either one or the other 100%.

It's helpful for me to go through my notes, notes from say 2007 or 2008. The notes are gangrenous. They are permeated with sickness.

What scared me in reading the notes is that at every point I was sure I was convalescing, but then things grew progressively worse.

I am not the boy who cried wolf. This time I am better. I wasn't doing the work before. I didn't even stop drinking on a daily basis.

Now I have done EVERYTHING under the sun to make my depression better and it has worked.

I used to believe the cliche that one must be tormented to be an artist. Not anymore.

Depression is a LOSS of individuality. It is impossible to truly be one's self while depressed.

An artist has to be DIFFERENT, but not DEPRESSED.

Excerpt from my new novel (the one I am working on, not the one I have for sale.)

Note: This is an excerpt from the novel I am currently writing. If you are interested in buying my completed novel, please message me.

Chapter 3

I was agnostic on the subject of death. Surely white middle-class prosperity would protect me from the worst dread of all: eternal nothingness.

Being that I am now devoutly religious (I am a non-dogmatic chaos magician) I know that God and Satan were walking with me then.

At the time I wasn't sure. Nothing could be worse than eternal nothingness (the terror of the very concept drained all the blood from my face and I involuntarily screamed at the thought of my own extinction - even writing this now upsets me) and the only person that could make this thought - which loiters like a pervert in the alley - bearable was Samantha.

If only I could live and then die with her. Eternal nothingness would be okay if I could die knowing that I would turn to dust next to her.

Hadn't scientists (to my 12 year old mind) proven that life after death does not exist?

What if it did exist? In that case I wanted to spend eternity with Samantha. Our souls becoming one. Imagine my sould becoming one with Samantha Epstein's soul. Didn't it seem impossible? It would be like having tea with Hitler and Jim Morrison.

This girl who was so popular and inaccessible - our souls becoming one! Spending ETERNITY together. Imagine that!

I had this romantic image of the two of us spending eternity as little kids of a beach; playing in the sand; building sandcastles; straight to the place of my happiest memories, a place of great emotional significance, Brigantine Beach, a small island off the coast of Atlantic City. The Trump Casinos of A.C. against the hazy backdrop of an early beautiful June morning. Life is about to begin. Life in death. Samantha Epstein and me.

Dreaming of this while listening to "Coma" by Guns N' Roses:

"No one's gonna bother me anymore...
No one's gonna mess with my head no more...
I can't understand what all the fighting's for...
but it's so nice here down far the shore."

I was happy being morbid. I hugged my pillow and pretended it was her.

I am a genius. I have my finger on the pulse of our time. While transcending our time. While transcending all time. I am immortal. The artist is always immortal.

The people in my writers group are very fond of me. Especially this one old man, Phil:

"What Will is trying to say is that we are acting in bad faith. Underneath the pornography, the scatology, etcetera, Will is telling us that we are fallen. That the world is fallen. That his generation, especially, is the last and worst generation. Will is following the existential tradition of Nietzsche, of Dostoyevsky. He may very well be a genius. There aren't too many geniuses left in the world nowadays. Publishing nowadays is GARBAGE! GARBAGE!!!" At this point Phil pounds the desk with his fist. "Detective stories and romance novels! Will doesn't write that junk! Will is one of the last true artists and his genius is very rare."

Gee, do you wonder why I LOVE this group? Phil has also had a very distinguished life. He was a book and magazine editor for 40 years. He worked alongside Jackie O. and was good friends with her. So he has been around.

So what are my motivations for attacking my generation and our culture as it exists now? Well, anger, mostly. Like everyone else I just wanted to be happy. I was very eager to accept the trivial and mediocre, but they had no interest in accepting me. The real world was not just unaccomodating but outright hostile. So I built my own world which has always saved me and will save me yet.

Bad Relapse Today

I had a bad relapse today. DEPRESSION!!! I feel better now. I got some food in my stomach and I hit the St. John's Wort tea a bit earlier than usual. I envy anyone who had a childhood. I'm still a child.

When I was a kid and I felt like I had been emotionally punched in the gut I hid under the covers and I mentally took myself to a better, kinder world. In this world was a beautiful girl who loved me unconditionally. I poured out everything to her and I just wept and wept and wept. There is a certain magic to feeling sorry for oneself. I don't trust anyone who has never known this feeling.

If that world is some kind of after-life I would kill myself in an instant. But no one can ever be sure of these things. I am NOT threatening to commit suicide.

One of the important steps in overcoming depression is acknowledging the pain. Don't try to hide from it. I must admit that I am WRACKED with pain. Pain has been a fact of my life for years now. Even in my best moments I am seldom IN the moment.

Wallow in pessimism and don't be afraid to spend time with Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard. What's odd is that every time I consciously wallow in pessimism things seem to instantly get better.

And overall I have been improving. I don't want my second childhood. I want my FIRST childhood. Right here, right now. I refuse to be a "normal" adult until this happens. I'm on strike godammit!

My neighbors are Boricua Jehovah's Witnesses. The women dress like the Amish. They scurry back and forth with their prayer books. Nice, clean, sober people. Mother, father, sister, brother.

I've already debauched two of them. The grown son and grown daughter have both put on sex shows for me. The son jerked off for me every night. He even waved to me as he was stroking it.

Don't expect me to write about it here. I've already written about it. Many times. Veritable epics. EPICS I tell you! EPICS! Poems, stories, plays.

Now I am obsessed with the 55 year old mother of the family. I want to make her my Satanic altar (in Satanism a nude woman should always serve as the altar.) I want to draw an inverted red pentagram on her chest (with red paint - a true Satanist would never harm an animal); the pentagram partially melts from the sweat of her heaving bosom.

She is on a marble slab, surrounded by black candles and hooded figures. I perform the invocation and drink from the chalice that rests between her legs and (I presume) hairy pussy.

Later we fuck. The pentagram is still on her chest. This nice, sweet, humble, devoutly religious woman. If only she knew the starring role she plays in some of my most perverse fantasies. (I won't even go into the fantasy in which she drops a turd on my bed.)

If only this devout woman knew that in my fantasies she is a coprophiliac masochistic Satanist.

Tom was a pussy. He was this 19 year old white kid I met when I first moved back to Jersey. He hung out at a coffee shop and played his acoustic guitar.

He dressed like Ducky from "Pretty in Pink", a lot of pork pie hats and vintage suits from thrift stores. CORNY.

To my astonishment he got laid a lot. This reinforced my opinion that there is something very wrong with most women. (Not all, but MOST.) How could they find this CORNY motherfucker attractive?

He, of course, inflamed my jealousy. I was 24 years old. I had lost my virginity at the age of 20 and then I had been tied up in a destructive relationship for four years. I was 24 years old and I had only been with one woman.

This CORNY mofo was pulling in harems of dumb little white girls.

I was TOUGHER than him. He was still a boy and I was already a man. He wasn't even shaving yet! I was capable of grounding him to bits with my bare hands, of KILLING him with my bare hands.

So why was he getting laid and not me?

Not only that, but he was white and I was black. Every time he was around my "black man's rage" flared up. I muttered under my breath: "This white motherfucker..."

One day I was drunk off a 40oz of St. Ides when the phone rang. It was Tom. I was drunk, so a bit more combative than usual.

"Hey, Will! How's it goin' bro? Hey, dude... I was wondering. I got this chick, bro. My parents are home. Could I use your place, bro."

"Yeah, sure. If you let me watch."

"What? What are you talking about, bro?" Tom was notoriously vanilla when it came to sex.

"You heard me. Either let me watch or let me fuck her if you want to bring her over here."

"Dude, you're crazy."

"What? Who the fuck you think you talking to? I'll fuck you up, boy. Little punk-ass motherfucker. Get your fucking ass over here, punk. Bring your bitch too, you motherfucker. I'll fuck her and then I'll fuck you."

"Sorry, Will. I'm going to go."

I laughed and went back to my bottle and my undeserved loneliness.

My OCDs about sex, time, existential issues, ontological issues, alcohol, hygiene, food, pleasure, loved ones, swallowing, my talent, my writing, my work; the OCDs to read a certain book, wear a certain shirt; cigarettes only as a reward for new sex/drug experiences; OCDs about tainting myself by betraying myself; OCDs about using the wrong word or talking about something important to me in the wrong way. And more. Much, much more.

And underneath all of this - an ocean of anxiety.

It all seems increasing ridiculous, which is good.

What's important is following the flow of awareness. I think of the Indian mystic Osho.

Don't get hung up on compassion and other hippie nonsense! I used to think that I couldn't meditate without becoming a Buddha or a hippie Christ. Some weakling offering hugs to to everyone!

This is wrong. This is morality and the flow of awareness is AMORAL. We can choose to attach to it whatever morality works best for us personally.

Yes, it's probably better to be kind to others, but this is not always necessary.

What's most important is following the flow of awareness. Everything else is just dogma.

Breaking news on the Mrs. G front! I saw her this morning, leaving her front porch, walking to the store with a young girl (presumably a relative.)

FINALLY! FINALLY! FINALLY! She was wearing something revealing! She was wearing tight, black pants (not spandex, but tight sweats) and a magenta tank top.

I did not realize her ass was so big! All those Amish skirts covered one of her greatest ASSets, no pun intended. Her breasts are bigger than I thought too! She knew I was walking behind her just to get to my car.

I got in my car, pulled out, drove alongside them and tried to watch them from the corner of my eye and then in my rearview mirror.

When I got home a few hours later she had made a point of shutting ALL the blinds - even the ones that are never normally closed.

Well, fuck you then!

I don't want to watch you anyway.

That's a lie.

I need to sit out on my porch and read a bit more.

I'm working on a piece for my writers group. The entire piece is about what I should read in front of Mrs. Garay. A book list, if you will, with the pros and cons of reading each selection in front of her. But will it make a difference whether I read James Patterson or Marcel Proust? Won't the fact that I am reading at all be strange and exotic to her?