And so it is christmas, to which one of the only positives will be that the goddamned christmas songs will stop playing on all radio stations by tomorrow and into the next week as the stragglers are murdered in their cribs while they sleep. Fuck em. If I have to hear Paul McCartney sing his stupid little synthesizer song again, I swear he made that out-of-tune schlock when he was sky high on LSD with bobby dylan, I swear to Fucking Fuck—
Sheriff came the other day and served papers, so this will be the ultimate last christmas here at this house. I’m kind of numb to it right now, but it will kick in sooner or later when I’m not expecting it. Christmas has never been a good time here, or down there back then, or anywhere really. Either it had to be perfect, and therefore tensions were ever-rising and always high, or it became just stressful and yelling and anger over a lack of being able to be perfect. I stopped asking for anything for christmas years ago, probably a decade ago by now if not more, and I’m sure it broke my father’s heart, since he says, despite outward appearances saying otherwise, that he loooooves this time of year. He also considers high school to be “the best years of my life and I’d go back there again in a heartbeat”, so I don’t really know how much I agree with anything else he says from that point onward. I don’t ask for anything on other holidays or my birthday or any other day, either. Don’t give presents either. I started doing this once I learned of how bankrupt he was (and therefore, he and mom were), and I knew, financially, it was just more onto the evergrowing bonfire pile. I didn’t want to add to it, for mostly useless stuff, or half-hearted gifts that were given out of expectation. Maybe I was selfish too as I’ve always been mostly broke, so I never had it to give to other people out of what I saw as obligatory giving. That, and I never liked christmas songs. Never liked this holiday. Never thought it was grand. Santa was killed when I was young, so every christmas after that, getting gifts “from Santa” felt weird, a little off. Bitch, I know you gave me these, not Santa, stop lying. Then turn around and teach me “don’t lie, it’s bad.” Hrm.
And so the holidays aren’t a good time of year. I’m around people who are just stressed out because of their own childhood memories, and the expectations to make this time “the perfect cheerful time” and all the goddamned holiday food and cookies and sweets and endless pies and mashed potatoes with tons of cheese and the $50 christmas roast that everyone else seemed to really go after (the females at least) but I never really enjoyed, except the outside roasted seasoned pieces that everyone else was always welcome to first and I maybe got a taste of.
In January, I’m planning on hibernating. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for years, but never seem to accomplish. This year is different, as there are no other years after this one. This is the last time I get to do this, at least do this here, in this spot, that I always seem to find myself having done it in the springtime when I look back and can re-assess. Too much food, too much fat, too much beer, too many bongs, too much smoke, too much mope, too much dope, too too much. I need to hibernate simply to wick off all this excess and to drive it into a project, so that project can get me out of here by spring. As that’s the target of when the house will probably be taken back by the bank. And all this stuff that’s in the attic and the basement and all the boxes of her & his shit will need to be moved out. I’ve got, maybe a carload of stuff, minus my bed and a few bookcases. They will require a dumpster and a bonfire and two full-size moving trucks. But they aren’t my problem, that’s something I have to keep reminding myself, I led that horse to water and the horse took a piss and a shit in the pond, so why am I still trying to get the fucking thing to drink? Move.
The SEO rework of my sites will be done by the end of January at the latest. Ideally, it should be the end of this cold December, but I’m being realistic since I know how I am, and this will be an uphill battle most of the time. I have 3 licenses left on the plug-ins before I need to buy more, so I’m toying around with 3 ideas for domains and how to sell them. I’ve got one that I am 95% certain will run, and the other two are going to be left to dealer’s choice somewhere down the line. A dollar a day from each site is my target by the end of February. I should be able to hit that and higher. Also thinking about a whitelabel camsite, perhaps 10 if they pay off, since the work is minuscule and really comes down to just driving that sweet sweet traffic. These are all adult sites.
Next is non-adult sites, or sites that I’m going to build specifically to drive affiliate traffic. I have one good idea, possibly two. These will be tackled by the end of March, or however long it takes to set up 2000 posts on each of the tube sites and let the queues loop. This is where I’ll make the real money, apparently. Who knows. It all depends on how long it takes me to write 50,000 words a site. The last time I wrote 50k was never. For reference, that “never” there just made 1000 words. Hindsight.
Hibernation will also include getting rid of this bubble beer gut by literally fasting it off. The weights are in my room, and I’ll have a small $150 affiliate check coming in, so tenbux will be put aside for some basic-ass flat-sole shoes, to lift, and to dance in. Part of what I think I want to Goal towards is getting back into music, specifically the techno and DJing and party-beats side, that I have wanted to do since I was fifteen and haven’t done by now. That’s more than half my life. Pathetic. And part of that was discovering 4-floor dancing about a decade ago. I’m pretty good. I can be excellent if I practice every day, and that alone comes with all sorts of side benefits that it just needs to be done. Meet girls on the dance floor, meet girls when they see me in the booth, make money doing something that I might actually enjoy and brings value to people, and then keep a blog about it and get affiliate payments by posting stupid-ass bling-bling instagram travel posts of my $30 hotel room in Bali and the nightclub with all the fucker’s hands up doing the woo-woo!. Maybe get some head while I’m at it. You know, the basics.
I’m calling it “fuckbody”. The ideal body made for fuckin’, and the ideal body made to inspire fuckin’, or immediate instillation of wanting to get fuckkkked upon observation. Girls need to look at me and think to themselves, “oh, shit, that’s trouble.” I’ve never been wanted for just physicality, never been at the point where I thought I was, for that matter. I need to do it for me, and for them, since, yes, some of this is for validation. Obviously. We all want to look good naked. The other parts are there for me though, and I know them through and through. My knee is probably going to blow earlier than not, so it’s imperitive that I make sure that works the best it can, now, so as to prolong my own original bodies lifespan. I’ve seen first-hand the effects of life-long alcoholism and sugar consumption and not lifting weights, and it results in broken bodies and amputations and butt gutt and forever fatigued and a lifelong side-effect of not getting fucked. I can’t imagine not getting fucked the first half of my life, AND the last half. Fuck. That. And so, this becomes the idea of “The Fuckbody”, the ideal physicality that not only ensures the reactive desire to be fucked by The Fuckbody, but also the prolonged ability to fuck in the first place. And maybe not have fake knees and a bum hip by the time I’m 60. … which ain’t that fucking far away, bucko.