I think I am probably the only one that would write a post like this.
"Matt," she begins. I hate it when people call me Matt. My name is Matthew. I hate her. Her fingernails are talons, long and pink and I think I see the glint of rhinestones. Her eyebrows are crayoned on too dark to be natural, fat and crooked like caterpillars. I think her hair is fake-- at least part of it. It looks too full in the back, and the pony tail isn't as dishwater as her bangs.
Once upon a time, I was describing this she in question, my brother Rooster's wife, to an interviewer and he told me he didn't see how describing how ridiculous she looked was any sort of important because every woman from Texas he'd ever met was this exact same woman with a different name. I have to describe her, though, because when I tell you what she said you might go, well, she's absolutely correct, but you might feel differently now that you know that, if you judge her by the way she looks, she is clearly out of her mind.
She says again, "Matt," because I am too busy wondering if her bangs are slightly crunchy and if so, would they make a sound if I grabbed a handful? She's snapping her gum too loud and all I can think is that song in Chicago, the one about the wife shooting her husband in the head because he wouldn't stop popping his gum. "You know what your problem is?" And I'm thinking, here it comes. It really got bad a month or so ago, right after she gave birth to Miller Lyte. Tammy has the impression she knows everything about everything. She's a hair dresser to boot, which means she feels it's her job to diagnose everyone's problems and unfortunately, that includes my own. "You were sexualized too young." I've got no idea what she's talking about, but it might have something to do with her and Roost walking in on me while I'm jerking off.
Let me go back a little bit.
I've been sort of unavailable lately, if that hasn't been evident enough. I've been off in West Virginia filming what will inevitably be pieced together into another one of my sub-par movies, but at least this time I get to work with Matthew Fox. Despite all the time I've been getting to spend with Zach, too many nights of going to bed early and suffering virtually no contact with the outside world had left me a little restless, sentimental, and missing both my family and my friends. I realized, fuck, I haven't been to Texas in ages, something like four months. I wanted to see my trailer and my mother and my new nephew and my brothers.
Our flight to Austin landed about three in the morning. Under normal circumstances, I would have taken the drive, but I don't think I've slept properly in weeks and I do not trust Zach behind the wheel, so we chose to get sloppy drunk on gin and tonics at the bar in the airport and let someone do the driving for ys. We got a cab to my RV park from AUS. It'd been so long I still had strings of lights in the window from Christmas. It made me really emotional at the time, partially because I couldn't really believe how much my life has changed since and partially because I wondered what life would have been like had I made different choices. I keyed my way in and while he went off into the bedroom, I almost immediately passed out on the couch, which was the same place I woke up thirteen hours later.
Thirteen Year Old Me was nothing like Thirty-Six Year Old Me. He was quieter, more timid, had too big hands and feet on a too small torso. He had a best friend named Paul Lancaster and Thirteen Year Old Me thought that was very cool because he idolized Paul Newman, and Thirty-Six Year Old Me still wants to do his part in a remake of Hud. I would usually spend the night with Paul on the weekends because his mom always said yes and unlike my mama, would spend the entirety of the night in the bedroom with her boyfriend instead of bringing us cookies and trying to get us to play Monopoly with her.
One of those nights, I woke up to all these noises and I thought Paul was having a nightmare. When I got up to shake him awake, his eyes were wide open and he was wriggling under the duvet and it didn't really occur to me why until later. He lifted up the blankets and I thought, hey, I have brothers, so I crawled in with him and he goes, "Hud was the best when he said, "Nobody gets out of life alive," don't you think?" I didn't really know where he was going with it, but I just go, yeah, yeah, and Paul continues, "Maybe that means we need to use every opportunity we got." His hand creeped up my thigh and I opened my legs a little and he slid his hand down my shorts and circled his long fingers around my cock and approximately three minutes later, I was having my first orgasm at someone else's hand while thinking about Paul Newman and Paul Lancaster. But Tammy didn't know this story.
She does, however, know the story about my mama accidentally walking in on me jerking myself off, which happened four days after the incident with Paul. That's mama's favorite story to tell.
Thirteen hours after I collapsed into a pile on that ugly-ass sofa of mine, I woke up and I was hard because I'd just had the most wonderful dream about fucking someone, and at the moment, I don't remember who, but I thought hey, no one knows I'm here and he's still asleep, I've got time to kill, so I circled my hand around my dick just like Paul had and many people after and started stroking it. I was really getting into it. I'm really particular about the way that I do this, all right. Sometimes I do exactly what I've got to do as quickly and as efficiently as possible, other times I drag it out, make it a spectacle even if no one's around to watch me. This particular occasion, I was taking my sweet time, and when I thought that I finally wanted to come, in barges Rooster and Tammy the Hair Dresser, balancing baby Miller Lyte on her hip, which brings me to the present.
"I think," Tammy says, nodding sagely, "you might have a sex addiction."
Really, I do not know why people that name their children things like Miller Lyte are so concerned with my problems.
Okay, that's it. This had no point, I just wanted to talk about my favorite appendage. Here you should 1) tell me who you'd like to fuck and/or 2) send me songs that make you think of sex and/or 3) discuss self-loving. Happy Masturbation Month, guys. Since my man is on hiatus until June something, I will eventually be in New York visiting with Kelli Garner watching Dazed and Confused and making crystal meth in a bathtub, but until then I'll be in the islands with him. Payce.
PS:
semisupertom: YOU
semisupertom: ARE
semisupertom: INSANE
Once upon a time, I was describing this she in question, my brother Rooster's wife, to an interviewer and he told me he didn't see how describing how ridiculous she looked was any sort of important because every woman from Texas he'd ever met was this exact same woman with a different name. I have to describe her, though, because when I tell you what she said you might go, well, she's absolutely correct, but you might feel differently now that you know that, if you judge her by the way she looks, she is clearly out of her mind.
She says again, "Matt," because I am too busy wondering if her bangs are slightly crunchy and if so, would they make a sound if I grabbed a handful? She's snapping her gum too loud and all I can think is that song in Chicago, the one about the wife shooting her husband in the head because he wouldn't stop popping his gum. "You know what your problem is?" And I'm thinking, here it comes. It really got bad a month or so ago, right after she gave birth to Miller Lyte. Tammy has the impression she knows everything about everything. She's a hair dresser to boot, which means she feels it's her job to diagnose everyone's problems and unfortunately, that includes my own. "You were sexualized too young." I've got no idea what she's talking about, but it might have something to do with her and Roost walking in on me while I'm jerking off.
Let me go back a little bit.
I've been sort of unavailable lately, if that hasn't been evident enough. I've been off in West Virginia filming what will inevitably be pieced together into another one of my sub-par movies, but at least this time I get to work with Matthew Fox. Despite all the time I've been getting to spend with Zach, too many nights of going to bed early and suffering virtually no contact with the outside world had left me a little restless, sentimental, and missing both my family and my friends. I realized, fuck, I haven't been to Texas in ages, something like four months. I wanted to see my trailer and my mother and my new nephew and my brothers.
Our flight to Austin landed about three in the morning. Under normal circumstances, I would have taken the drive, but I don't think I've slept properly in weeks and I do not trust Zach behind the wheel, so we chose to get sloppy drunk on gin and tonics at the bar in the airport and let someone do the driving for ys. We got a cab to my RV park from AUS. It'd been so long I still had strings of lights in the window from Christmas. It made me really emotional at the time, partially because I couldn't really believe how much my life has changed since and partially because I wondered what life would have been like had I made different choices. I keyed my way in and while he went off into the bedroom, I almost immediately passed out on the couch, which was the same place I woke up thirteen hours later.
Thirteen Year Old Me was nothing like Thirty-Six Year Old Me. He was quieter, more timid, had too big hands and feet on a too small torso. He had a best friend named Paul Lancaster and Thirteen Year Old Me thought that was very cool because he idolized Paul Newman, and Thirty-Six Year Old Me still wants to do his part in a remake of Hud. I would usually spend the night with Paul on the weekends because his mom always said yes and unlike my mama, would spend the entirety of the night in the bedroom with her boyfriend instead of bringing us cookies and trying to get us to play Monopoly with her.
One of those nights, I woke up to all these noises and I thought Paul was having a nightmare. When I got up to shake him awake, his eyes were wide open and he was wriggling under the duvet and it didn't really occur to me why until later. He lifted up the blankets and I thought, hey, I have brothers, so I crawled in with him and he goes, "Hud was the best when he said, "Nobody gets out of life alive," don't you think?" I didn't really know where he was going with it, but I just go, yeah, yeah, and Paul continues, "Maybe that means we need to use every opportunity we got." His hand creeped up my thigh and I opened my legs a little and he slid his hand down my shorts and circled his long fingers around my cock and approximately three minutes later, I was having my first orgasm at someone else's hand while thinking about Paul Newman and Paul Lancaster. But Tammy didn't know this story.
She does, however, know the story about my mama accidentally walking in on me jerking myself off, which happened four days after the incident with Paul. That's mama's favorite story to tell.
Thirteen hours after I collapsed into a pile on that ugly-ass sofa of mine, I woke up and I was hard because I'd just had the most wonderful dream about fucking someone, and at the moment, I don't remember who, but I thought hey, no one knows I'm here and he's still asleep, I've got time to kill, so I circled my hand around my dick just like Paul had and many people after and started stroking it. I was really getting into it. I'm really particular about the way that I do this, all right. Sometimes I do exactly what I've got to do as quickly and as efficiently as possible, other times I drag it out, make it a spectacle even if no one's around to watch me. This particular occasion, I was taking my sweet time, and when I thought that I finally wanted to come, in barges Rooster and Tammy the Hair Dresser, balancing baby Miller Lyte on her hip, which brings me to the present.
"I think," Tammy says, nodding sagely, "you might have a sex addiction."
Really, I do not know why people that name their children things like Miller Lyte are so concerned with my problems.
Okay, that's it. This had no point, I just wanted to talk about my favorite appendage. Here you should 1) tell me who you'd like to fuck and/or 2) send me songs that make you think of sex and/or 3) discuss self-loving. Happy Masturbation Month, guys. Since my man is on hiatus until June something, I will eventually be in New York visiting with Kelli Garner watching Dazed and Confused and making crystal meth in a bathtub, but until then I'll be in the islands with him. Payce.
PS:
semisupertom: YOU
semisupertom: ARE
semisupertom: INSANE