This probably my last report.
Thanks for being with me for the last two years.
LR: Her Daughter’s Fuckin’ Dead; Mourns Atop My Cock
-2006-
It was getting pretty bad now.
The worst part was waking up.
I was drinking heavily almost every night of the week and getting stoned, alone in my bedroom. I’d been doing this every day for 5 years now. My room stunk like a pissy ass wino who hadn’t bathed in months.
My family had pretty much given up on me. Those obligatory remarks of encouragement stopped long ago. They knew I’d never get married. They knew I’d never have kids. They knew “things wouldn’t get better”.
Maybe that hurt more than anything.
I couldn’t even be around them. I’d get weird and quiet. If we happened to be at a restaurant eating, I’d cringe at the thought of the waiter asking me for my order…I was too shy to speak up. Having to be a participant in simple acts like this were enough to exhaust me for days.
Killing myself became more of a reoccurring theme. That thought loop would dance in my brain over and over again like my favorite song, coming in different variations but never betraying it’s instigative beat . It was almost comforting, if that makes any sense.
I found myself more attracted to instruments of death than women. The touch of a sharp metallic object piercing my flesh and across my writ veins, with me being in control of whether of not I snuffed myself out was divine perfection, as I cock teased death itself.
I romanticized it.
Sometimes I’d daydream, imagining myself on the floor in a puddle of tepid vomit and 211 Steele Reserve passed out in my bedroom, dead as shit, my body bloated and purple, almost beyond recognition. My Japanese pro wrestling posters displayed on my wall would come to life, as Kenta Kobashi and Mitsuhiro Misawa would point spit at me and yell out profanities I couldn’t understand, before finally turning their backs on me; the posters would lose their adhesive and fold up at the corners, then fall off the wall towards the floor which hadn’t been vacuumed in a year.
I’d get hauled off to the morgue like a worthless piece of crap meat, just the same as I was when I was living. The paramedics (Bill and Nick) would stop off at the 7-11 to buy some nachos and hot dogs and read the magazines, taking their time as they licked their fingers to turn the pages.
Bill: Didja see the new issue of Auto Trader? The horse power on this baby could make a grown man cry. What you reading over there?
Nick: Jus dem tabloids…Patrick Swayze looks like shit.
Bill: Fuck, we’ve been in here for 30 minutes, maybe we should head back and drop off the meatball at the hospital?
Nick: Nah, fuck it, not right now…I still haven’t read this shit about Mellisa Joan Hart’s breast cancer scare.
Afterall, there was no rush to get back to the morgue…it was only worthless me waiting in the ambulance they had to take back anyway. I wasn’t going anywhere.
I had no social life at all, except for saying good morning and goodnight to the security guard at work. Aside from that, I was pretty much invisible to the rest of society.
I was never gonna get laid, aside from that couple times from 10 years ago.
I was never gonna have friends like the type I had when I was 13.
I was never…
…never…
Gonna to do anything.
Then, I met Marcela…
2009, 2 weeks ago…
I smacked my throbbing cock up against her chin, rubbing it down her neck to and fro, tracing my total disregard across her face, wondering whether or not she found this offensive. My other hand tightly clenched her hair like a makeshift ponytail, tugging at it like it was specially grown for my fellative requirements. It must’ve been; the fit was too perfect not to be.
A nice tight grip on my human pony girl.
I rubbed the tip against her sweet baby pink lips violently like a blind man trying to paint a moving object, as if it were the last of the Skull Fuck Concerto Armonioso’s in F# I’d ever be a participant of.
Mourning Mandi: Baby, Im going to treat you like king. Anything you want, let me know.
J The Ripper: Cool.
After I got done fucking her doggy style and squeezing out every bit of jizz I had left in my jelly tubes, I took a deep breath. She was Asian and her house smelled like it. You know what I mean.
I looked around her bedroom, and for the first time noticed the paintings on her wall all had a recurring theme…they were all of a white rabbit in different situations. In one, the rabbit was dressed like a little kid walking with a backpack. In another a man in a black suit was carrying the rabbit into a store with no lights on. In yet another, the rabbit stared blankly at the observer.
Then I noticed an easel in the corner, and painting supplies. Holy shit, this bitch has talent. She was a painter.
J The Ripper: Did you paint those yourself?
I looked down at her and just wanted to leave and sleep. I had no idea why I was starting this conversation; I guess I really was genuinely impressed.
Mourning Mandi: Yes, I’m painter. It my love.
J the Ripper: So whats up with the fuckin rabbits? Is it like a Chinese thing or something?
Mourning Mandi: (nestling her head on my shoulder) That my daughter.
J The Ripper: The rabbits your daughter? (I admit when I heard that I was freaked and whatever remenant of a boner I had turned to mush. This was truly bizarre now.
Mourning Mandi: She die last month. She was 8 year old. I paint to therapy.
What a fuckin downer. I never know how to react when people tell me bad news about themselves. It all made sense now. Maybe it wasn’t so much my game as to why she was down to fuck so quickly after meeting her…she was just lonely, sad, and needed someone, and I was there.
J The Ripper: Aww that sucks. Very nice painting though.
I was going to ask what the signifigance was of having her daughter represented as a rabbit, but my curiosity wasn’t strong enough to find out. This was borderline creepy and made me feel like shit for some reason.
Mourning Mandi: Thank you. (she started to choke up a little, as if she was going to start balling any minute.)
I took off my condom which was still hanging on, mostly from the limp girth and gobs of spunk. I let her clean me up with her tongue as she cleared every last bit of cum, even the thick goblets that were scattered across my pubes near my shaft.
I comforted her by patting her on the head, then got up, got dressed and left.
Next stop Jack In The Box…nothing beats eating the 7 piece fried jalapeno’s after a good fuck.
***************************************************************
Last week through Last Night
By this point I think I’m almost incapable of falling in love with someone. Whatever I thought love was before I discovered the game just doesn’t apply anymore. I realize know whatever I perceived as love 2 years ago was really just my own neediness, and depending on whether or not my partner liked me as a barometer of my self esteem.
So what now? Do I just game for many years to come until I find a “new version of love”? One that doesn’t involve me sacrificing my self respect, one that doesn’t include me feeling like Im only hanging on to her by a thread, one that doesn’t make me feel like I don’t deserve it.
Can it really exist for reals, or is it just a lie people try to make themselves believe, like religion, cause the alternative is just too much/painful for them to bare?
It’s been 2 years and I still haven’t really felt anything real for anyone. I’ve tried. I’ve tried to really convince myself that I could fall hard for someone, but I just don’t think I have it in me. M & M and Lay Delay were just me trying to be normal…trying to convince myself these girls were “the one”.
Fuck it. Maybe it’s not as important as I think. Maybe it’s not as important as I want it to be.
Which brings us to last week….
I met Cathy Wonder Tits last week for memorial weekend.
There’s always hot chicks everywhere you go in Hollywood. Sometimes you almost get desensitized, and all the faces start looking the same. No standouts or heart squeezers…eventually they all become cookie cutter cuties, no different than the other.
The first moment I saw her my heart gulped then sank into the pit of my guts, swooshing around in a vortex of gunk and acids. My breath was kidnapped by her presence, and from the first glance I knew I couldn’t look away. I went right up to her and said…
J The Ripper: Wow, I just had to meet you. You’re face is absolutely…perfect.
As the words escaped and betrayed my lips which were seasoned by now to say pretty much the right thing all the time, I felt I wasn’t in control anymore. But I meant it. She was absolutely stunning.
The old me kicked in and I gamed her properly (one of my best performances if I do say so myself) resulting in a makeout in front of her friends 5 minutes later. Out of the hundreds of girls I’ve tongue kissed, this was without a doubt the best.
Cathy Wonder Tits: How do I know you’re not a player? Everything you’re saying to me is too perfect…how do I know you don’t say all this stuff to every other girl you meet?
J The Ripper: (looking at her and not saying a word) You’re just gonna have to trust me.
I sincerely didn’t want to let her go. I wanted to spend the whole night with her. The thought of losing sight of her and never seeing her again actually concerned me. What the fuck was going on here?
We danced together, and even though I have the rhythm of a door knob, I was possessed by her affection towards me…I couldn’t help but make the right movements…I had no choice, this moments was “us”.
I was totally fucking captured. I hadn’t felt this way since Marcela back in 2006.
I number closed her, and spoke to her for the entire week. Everything about her was cute. Her voice, the way she’d say things, the way she’d laugh at my stupid jokes…man, I was enamored by her. We texted when we weren’t talking on the phone, and I knew I had to see her again ASAP.
We made plans, and she was gonna meet me up at the club with her friends, who I planned on feeding to my fellow womanizing scumbags, CC.
I was actually a little nervous about meeting her again. It was almost funny how I was slipping back into my AFC ways. I even started doubting my looks…what if Im not as good looking as she remembered me being? Beer goggles, fuckin beer goggles.
She shows up, and we hit off again right away.
Just as fucking cute as I remembered her.
She was a close to a dream as you can get.
I greet her friends and she meets mine; everything is as smooth as can be.
I take her by the hand, and we start making out in the Cabana booth, over come with lust. I wanted her so bad. I was going to make her my girl friend. I was going to be with her for a long long time. I’d fuck her every day. Take care of her. She’d be my girl, and I’d love her the best I could. Love her in a way I never knew I could before…
I had to mentally slap myself, this was all nonsense. Cause true love doesn’t really exist the way we want it to. I had to take this as it comes, and not get my hopes up. I’ve been burned too many times to let myself go through this…
But what if?
What if just maybe, she really was the one? What if the last two years of fucking random girls really all just leads up to this one moment? The moment where J the Ripper can finally rest after 2 years of non-stop sarging, and just have a normal chill life with the love of my life?
What if….the exact opposite and worst case scenario happens?
I go to the bathroom, and 5 minutes later I came back outside, only to find her in another dudes arms. Siren was nearby, and told me minutes later she was telling the dude she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
I ignore it. Im supposed to be J The Ripper. I’ll get her later…right?
Right?
……right.
She passes by me a few minutes after, and my heart starts to thump against my rib cage. I realize, being more honest with myself than Ive ever been that I was jealous of the dude she was hangin on.
I lash out at her like a true chode.
J The Ripper: What was up with that dude?
Cathy Wonder Tits: I can talk to whoever I want.
J the Ripper: I know, but I came here to see you. I thought you came here to see me too.
Cathy Wonder Tits: I did, but if another guy finds me a attractive and I find him attractive, I cant talk to him?
J The Ripper: Lets go sit down and talk about this.
We sit, and she’s acting all defensive and argumentative. I know this patteren. Ive seen it before with Marcela. It was Marcela all over again from 2006.
J The Ripper: Nevermind then, I just thought it was disrespectful.
Just then, the other dude comes by, and she pulls him into her, so that his face is up in her neck.
Right in front of me.
I get up and leave.
I turn around and she’s back in his arms.
I knew it was too good to be true.
She texts me later asking where I am, and that she wants to talk.
But fuck it, I’m through talking.
J The Ripper Text: Never contact me again.
She doesn’t respond.
I guess I was right all along.
*sigh*
So why confess all this?
I just wanted to let you guys know that even after 2 years of being in the game, even I have these types of moments of relapse into my former self. There’s a million other way I could’ve handled this. We all fuck up.
***********************************************************
The more I try to push away and escape, pathetically pretending pickup isn't really such a big part of my life, the more I get sucked in, to the point that it’s all I think about. It consumes that emptiness I’ve had had all my life like a band aid trying to heal an amputated limb.
So why do I do it? How can I go on? Going out night after night, fucking meaningless girls, like a hungry whore with a bottomless pit for a stomach…
…It’s all I know.
But I think even since day 1, since the first day I stepped foot in a club and opened my first set, I’ve known the answer all along…since the first time I conceived of the Casanova Crew and had our first meeting.
This is really all I’ve got.
It’s this or nothing at all.
I wont live my life in my bedroom again.
So I continue on, living for the thrill of the weekends, and being just a ghost in the interim to the rest of the world (and myself), all so that I can go out and play the part of J The Ripper for just one more night.
-J The Ripper
If you enjoy my writing, please check out my archive on my website,
www.casanovacrew.com
CHAT
Its like.. whats the point 
