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I pulled myself away from my slavish artistic toilings to go out and have some fun. I stopped in at a pumpkin carving party where I was supposed to carve Amanda's pumpkin (I wish that sounded more innuendo-ish) but didn't end up carving it cause she bought this really small pumpkin and it didn't have enough room to carve in my Mindy Main face with freakishly long tongue as I had planned. Instead we went to the show at Epic Space, and I saw a band play that was kinda punk-metal and not very original and kinda reminded me that I'm getting too old for punk rock to be exciting and meaningful anymore. I sat on the couch watching kids mosh and wondered if sloppy punk bands meant as much to them as they used to mean to me.
I bought some acid which never hit me all that hard cause I was already a little drunk. Amanda took off and I hung out with Gen while a metalhead was drunkenly professing his love and respect to her. He was actually really nice and gave me a hug and said I was a good guy, which is funny cause the first time I met him he was drunk and totally hating on me cause he was old school metal and didn't appreciate gawffick kids with silly hair or whatever. Then we went to John Henry's and saw the last band of the night play there, which was the shittiest metal known to man. I used to be really into metal but in the past few years most of my love for it has died. Most bands I see play here are all posturing and no actual musical skill.
Listening to some guy covered in bad tattoos bark into a microphone for forty minutes made me glad I've spent most of my nights lately at home working. Everytime the guy would say something like "This next song is called INFECTING THE MASSES!", I'd be like, "Well of course it is, you cliche fuck!". I always wonder, who actually encourages these guys? Most of these bands bring nothing new to the game, instead appealing to the lowest common denominator expecting anyone who likes metal to like their own shitty brand of tired metal stereotypes.
Finally it was over and we went to play in the park. We had a swing fight where we would try to kick the crap out of each other on the swings, which was actually difficult because you have to swing sideways and then turn really hard. She would have had an unfair advantage over me cause she was wearing boots, but she was also drunker than me so it didn't matter. We talked to some creepy homeless dude for awhile, who according to Gen, followed us there from the bar. After awhile it was getting to be like 4AM and cold as hell so we took off and while I was walking with her I took both her hands and communicated to her that I would love to put things in her, in a romantic and committed fashion. She was like "Nay" and said something about Mr. Ed, and I told her this was horseshit cause I was being serious and she was making Mr. Ed jokes, yet my communication was sadly ineffective cause I accidentally used the word horseshit which was funny when viewed in the current context. Gen is strikingly beautiful but unfortunately does not want parts of me inside her body and does not want to hold hands while walking through a field of daisies during sunset with me. This left me feeling depressed, and after she left me I went home to watch anal pornography. Beforehand I microwaved my leftover Kung Pao Beef, and ate it while staring into Sasha Grey's asshole gaping at a low framerate. At the end of my meal I ate the few chili peppers left with my hands, noting that masturbating with chili pepper hands could prove disastrous. But know dear reader, that Cutting Agent is a brave and daring man, always on the hunt for adventure. So I found in the end that beating myself off with a priapic burning sensation due to chili pepper hands was actually quite enjoyable.
After this I lied in bed smoking a crapload of cigarettes wishing I had somebody to fry and make out with, and lend me a nice puffy snatch to suck on. Upon reaching sleep, I had a dream that I was sketching a group of people as they waited enthusiastically to see the results. They themselves had the half formed faces of sketches, and it was as though they were waiting for me to finish drawing them so that they could become real, instead of just sloppy gray lines across the empty space of the room they stood in. I consider while remembering this, that some people do live the same way. The fucker of artists worms her way into your heart through the process of cooking you dinner, taking care of you when you're sick, and being blessed with the ability to force hard cock all the way down her throat until you can feel her teeth pressed against the base of your shaft, which hurts a bit, but when coupled with the strange overpowering pleasure of fucking the inside of a neck (which crushes you on all sides [which is a sacrifice given to a loved one who is a lover of perversion]), and the ambient trickle of a single globule of her spit slowly running down one side of your scrotum, it burns it's powerful memory into your mind forever, so that you cannot even think of fucking without thinking of her. And she does this because as a human, she is only a rough sketch, and she wants only to be created in your image. She performs deep throat fellatio only so that a regular blowjob later on will seem so much less intense, so less real - to haunt your memory. Sloppy grey lines become inked in black with precision, with discipline, with the knowledge that in her absence in a life devoid of joy I will have all the time in the world to perfect her clumped mascara blasted lashes. While reaming her from behind over a bathroom sink, I peel her cheeks open and press my body against hers so that her warm asshole is pressed against my stomach; another memory burned in, something I won't be able to forget next time I'm with someone else and having trouble being enthusiastic about the love of the present. The love of the past is more powerful. These fragmentary girls are becoming more true to life in their own lives, and I am getting better at my craft, and I'm crafting heart-shaped oviducts gushing menstrual waterfalls swimming with french bulldogs. I'm in my room full of people that aren't real until I recreate them, and I'm working harder than ever to.
I had another dream of Gen and I naked in my bed, and it was cold in the room, and she was giving me head, and I wasn't dissappointed to wake back to reality because I was happy enough to be dreaming of anyone besides Malady defiling my once worshipped, now renounced naked dick.
When I wake up I want less, need less, am satisfied by mere jalepeno poppers and chocolate milk. I am far too alone and it is too quiet in my room.
But I do not attempt to chase my escape from here, to suck life from spit covered lips, I only need to stay here and unfold my mind some more. Chart the unknown. Plant the seeds that grow women from the dirt, then come back to harvest them once they become fuckable.
5:48 AM
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