A Fucking Unicorn



I really like this shot. You can just tell she’s dripping with charisma.

You see a girl like that, and her magic hurts your soul. You know damn well you’re a thoroughbred, but still — she’s a fucking unicorn.

Effortless style. Accessorized perfection. She’s somehow greater than the sum of all those flawless parts, and no doubt she probably shits glitter with a French accent.

You take note of each piece. You take note of each brand. You do the math and stand in front of that dressing room mirror in your mind’s eye only to realize that her outfit wouldn’t make you a unicorn. It’d make you a horse with a designer stick on her head.

My usual move is to bum a smoke from her. That way, I get a closer look at her bag and a little eye contact that tells me whether I can ask her where she shops.





I want this hourglass next to my bed for when I hook up. I’d flip it over, cackle like the wicked witch and say, “this is how long you have to go down on me before I’ll cum!”


Let it roll past your lips — ennui.

Doesn’t it feel good? The word itself is like a tiny cure for the very mood it defines.

Ennui — like Daft Punk, Coco Chanel, and the croissant — is one of those things that the French really nailed. It’s as though mere boredom were too pedestrian, so they defined an existential state that encompasses philosophical apathy and poised detachment.

Ennui is reserved for those with either stunning beauty, exceptional intelligence, or obscene wealth. Literature professors suffer ennui. Runway models suffer ennui. The single mom working the drive-thru window? Well, that bitch is just depressed.

Since I’m about halfway between runway model and fast-food employee, I can go either way. Sometimes I’m just bored and depressed, but sometimes that shit grows hairy armpits and starts smoking clove cigarettes.

Like now, for instance. I’ve got some serious ennui goin’ on.

Bored with sex. Bored with drugs. Bored with friends. I still love all three, but I just don’t feel like getting out of (or into) bed for any of them.

Nothing gives me a thrill at the moment.

It’s a bizarre thing, because I know intellectually that I lead a charmed life. Even emotionally I feel like things are fine. Still, I’m completely numb, as if the knife edge of my pain and pleasure is dull from repeated use.

No orgasms. No head rush. No laughter — and the odd thing is that I’m not upset about it. There are no tears either.

Oh well, it’ll pass soon enough. The fact that I can sit down and write anything at all means I’m coming out of it. I’ll just ride out the holiday weekend with a fake smile, and by this time next week I’ll back on the front lines of all the glitter and madness.

Wild or Crazy

I am wild. I am not crazy. There is a difference.

The stupid can’t see the difference, the inhibited deny the difference, and the authorities just don’t give a fuck about the difference — but the difference is everything.

Wild or crazy. At the extremes of sex, drugs, and rock and roll — anything worth doing, really — you’ll find only these two flavors.  They are the chocolate and vanilla of passion. The yin and yang of sin.

Wild explores. Crazy escapes.

Wild is beautiful. Crazy is broken.

Wild seeks enlightenment. Crazy seeks annihilation.

Know the difference. Be aware of the difference. Embrace wild, and send crazy packing.

Savor a savage fuck. Sample a heroic dose. Enjoy any raw and filthy moment of human vulnerability your heart desires, but always ask yourself: are you consciously seeking enlightenment or are you seeking to annihilate your consciousness?

If you don’t know the answer, get the fuck out of the room.

If you’re trying to escape, stop what you’re doing. Get help.

If you’re trying to explore, smile with your soul and take every inch of the experience as deeply as you possibly can.

And no matter what, don’t fucking judge — blowing a fat line of cocaine off a rock hard cock in a Vegas bathroom can be just as valid an exploration of consciousness as dropping acid in the desert with a tantric drum circle of naked hippies.

You don’t need to be burning incense for it to qualify as a religious experience.

You don’t even need a god.

All you need is a brain and a battle-cry:

Bitch, be wild. Don’t be crazy.

Cocaine Torches

Police have distributed ten “cocaine torches” to neighborhood policing teams and drug squads in the west of the county. Shone on noses and mouths, they show minute traces of cocaine which might be invisible to the naked eye. Anyone suspected of using the drug will be searched by officers and prosecuted if necessary.

BBC NEWS (via poortaste)

Oh, great. The cops in Britain finally saw that episode of CSI from, like, ten years ago. You know what else shows up under UV light? Semen. How about we shine that little narc lamp on your Freddie Mercury mustache, officer? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.




This isn’t decadent. This is stupid.

Never dump your whole stash on the mirror all at once. That’s how a coke-whore feeding frenzy becomes a trip to the emergency room before the pool closes.

And what’s with all the costume jewelry and that cell phone? Did somebody rob Vanilla Ice? Seriously, check the voicemail on that cracker-jack prize, I’ll bet there’s a threatening message from Suge Knight.

And what have I told you bitches about setting your drinks near the blow? Actually, get that fur out of there too. I once watched a porn star spill an eight ball all over her chihuahua. You haven’t partied until you’ve watched a gaggle of sex workers lick cocaine out of dog fur.

Fucking amateurs.



Hey, kids! Did you know cocaine is water soluble? Of course! That’s why everyone freaks out when a rookie coke whore sets her drink too close to the nose candy.

Well, did you also know that getting your blow wet isn’t always a bad thing? With only a few everyday household items, you can whip up your very own batch of cocaine aqueous solution for intranasal insufflation.

That’s right, it’s YaySpray®…! Your favorite hard drug in an easy to use nasal spray.

All you need is an empty nasal spray bottle (4 Way or Afrin bottles work best), a couple tablespoons of bottled water, a few drops of vodka, and a gram or so of your stash.

In a shallow cup or bowl, add about a tablespoon of water for each gram of blow you plan to use. Add the powder, and stir to dissolve (…yes, girls, just like Crystal Light.)

If your stuff is high-end, the mixture will be a bit cloudy and everything will dissolve. If your stuff is stepped on, you’ll notice the cuts will settle to the bottom… (yes, you get the added benefit of purer drugs!)

Add just few drops of vodka to stabilize and preserve the solution, but not too much or that shit’ll burn!

Suck the liquid up into the nasal spray bottle, and voilà! You’ve just whipped up a homemade batch of YaySpray®…!

Treat it just like regular nasal spray, and just like regular blow!

It’s easier on your nose, doesn’t leave any crumbs, and there’s no paraphernalia that might get you busted. It goes completely unnoticed in your purse, and you don’t have to find the nearest bathroom stall every time you want some candy!


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