masterfulmd - son-of-a-bitch

I was born a son-of-a-bitch in the heat of the night.

Demented sight was part of my plight.

I enjoy dearly giving people a serious fright.

I’ve been in many fights.

But I suppose that’s what a son-of-a-bitch is to do, right?

I once tried to be nice, but failed miserably, and bit this girl flying a kite.

The girl screamed and cried, much to my delight. I smiled and stared at the pulsing teeth marks of my bite.

I’ve never been loved, but that’s alright.

You get hardened after many lonely nights.

And after awhile your heart forms into a rock and takes flight.

It makes being unloved easier to recite.

When you’re born a son-of-a-bitch there’s nothing you can do, you’re doomed to your existence, because the world already decided it wants nothing to do with you.

The Cockroach


George K. Green – Cockroaches

The male humans are less cunning than their female counterparts when it comes to the killing of my kind. Although a good bit of female humans run screaming just from the sight of us. The ones who stay are lethal. They’re sneakier than the males. Males tend to be loud and blumbering with their aggressive approach. The females will sneak up on you and before you know it, splat, one more of us sent to cockroach heaven. Just last week I saw my cousin get squashed by a mother of two with a slipper. A more gruesome death was that of my girlfriend. She had her young life stripped away from her by a back washer. A fucking back washer. It was a cruel and slow death. Not one quick smash that brings death, and darkness, in a blink of an eye.

My dear late Magda and I were heading back to her place after an evening out. The bathroom was the quickest way home and you can usually tell by the lights if someone is in there or not. No lights you’re safe to travel, free of worry that a human will be in there to smash you. If the lights are on we peek to see if there is any human occupying the bathroom. The lights were on and we saw the feet of a woman heading out. She had well kept skinny feet, nails painted in a glossy pink. Some female humans seem to treat their feet with such little regard you’d think they had done something awful to them. Her legs were fit and she had the calves of a runner, my mother showed me how to point this out. She said runner legs meant harder to escape and more determined. She said never take a risk with runner legs, save the risk for smooth weightier legs, those were more likely to not run after you, and if so, they did with poor effort.

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The Art of Flirting

art of flirting - kissing hands - fred oakley
Fred Oakley – A Kiss On The Hand

How are we supposed to flirt?

Are you supposed to be coy or playful?

Am I supposed to be nice or nonchalant?

Can I be too nice? Can I be too nonchalant?

If you’re too playful will I find you less girly and more cool, like a cool girl friend? What is less girly? What is a cool girl? Don’t guys and girls fuck their friends sometimes? Is being a friend that bad? Is sharing a platonic bond and good conversations that bad?

Is too coy a sign of prudence or caution or just a personal moral code? Is there a way I am supposed to feel about one or another?

If I’m too playful is that being too aggressive?

Should you laugh at my jokes even if they aren’t funny?

Should I do the same?

Are we assholes if we don’t? Are we now considered, “not interested” if we don’t? What if I am interested, am I not allowed to not find everything you say not funny? What if you’re not funny, but I’m still interested, is that not allowed?

How am I supposed to read your body language? If you sit near me is that a sign that you like me or that the place is crowded? If you lean in to talk to me am I to think, OK she’s feeling me, or is the place just really loud?

If you touch me is that a sign? Are you telling me you’re interested in me as possibly more than a friend, are you considering having sex with me? Are you just a touchy feely type of person? Maybe you were just trying to get my attention?

Do I read your body language to see if it’s OK to touch you? But what’s the, it’s OK to touch, body language move? Where are the “I like you” spots compared to the “friend zone” spots? Is there a difference? How many touches before I go from, he likes me, to, fucking creeper? What if my respect for women makes me want to not make them feel creeped on that I don’t touch at all because I can’t figure out the touch policy, am I out of the running to get to know her more, am I not interested if I don’t touch?

Should you pretend to like things cause I like them?

Should I do the same?

Doesn’t that make us semi-fake versions of ourselves?

Is that what flirting is? To pretend? To not be unquestionably true to oneself?

Am I to leave the house waving a white flag of defeat to being me? Is the quest to meet an interesting girl a solemn agreement to be less me and more someone the potential girl seems to want me to be? Is she to do the same?

Is this why most relationships cannot sustain themselves but only a few months, nature taking its course, you needing to be you more than what the other person wanted you to be? And when your real selves can no longer hide you find that you don’t actually have much in common?

What if I don’t like selfies or Twitter or Facebook? What if I don’t have an Instagram? Am I now a leper? An undesirable because I don’t revel in social media?

Is this the game we’re forced to play?

Are we all to be amateur actors auditioning for the affection of others?

What if I don’t want to play this game?

Why can’t we just be ourselves?

Why can’t you be you and me, me?

Why is it not OK to not have chemistry and walk away being fine with that?

Why can’t I walk up and just say, I like the symmetry of your face and you look interesting, can I get your number and find out?


I used a combination of Febreze, Lysol, some cheap incense bought while picking up a Gatorade from the gas station and one of those plug-in air fresheners that shoot out a smelly mist of freshness every few minutes, yet, none of it worked because the fucking smell of death still lingers in the air. This revelation of lingering dead body stench makes me re-examine the hastiness in which I killed my parents. Maybe I should’ve exercised some restraint. Or, at least thought it through more. Pushing them overboard on a cruise ship while on vacation would have required less clean up – but they never went on vacations, unless you count the Poconos, I don’t. Stabbing them at a rest stop on our way to Nanna’s for Christmas, blaming it on a mugger, preferably a young black or hispanic male as to ensure the case would no doubt forever be linked to a string of other unsolved crimes fitting such vague descriptions. I could have given myself a not-so-serious wound that would have been from the result of me trying to save them from the attack, making me look courageous and unselfishly loving; which I could have parlayed into many sexual acts from gushy teens wanting to fuck the guy from TV who tried to save his parents. Chicks eat that hero shit up. But no, I had to act rashly and kill them after we argued for the fifth time this week. They threw my Xbox out. I was pissed about the Xbox but that’s not what made me lash out.

I was annoyed, not so much angry, the Xbox made me angry, but annoyed that they accused me of being gay, again. This was the fourth time this year, but the very first time they flat out just accused me. Personally, it’s no one’s business if I prefer to suck a dick or eat a pussy, it’s my damn mouth and I’ll choose to please whomever, however, I want. But my parents insisted that if I preferred dick in my mouth over pussy, this was a horrible wrong, blasphemous they said, and it needed to be fixed. I’d need Jesus, a shrink and a healthy dose of girl on girl porn. Oh, and they were seriously considering sending me to boot camp which in hindsight is pretty hilarious when you think about it. If your son is gay why would you want to send him to a place with nothing but teenage boys and young adult men that perform grueling tasks all day that leave them glistening with sweat. My parents obviously were not the brightest bulbs in the pack.

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Born Hated.

I was born black, you hated me.

You hated me before I could walk.

You hated me before I could talk.

You hated me before I could read.

You hated me before I could drive.

You hated me before you pulled me over.

You hated me before you asked me to step out of the car.

You hated me before I reached back to turn my car off.

You hated me before I felt the burn.

You hated me before I asked why you shot me.

You’ve always hated me, I just want to know why?

He Masturbates

He masturbates no less than five times a day. The feeling of his hard penis in his hands is a turn on, he’s not gay, but he does love his penis. He loves how it’s shriveled and floppy when it’s soft, hiding between his legs like a shy kitten. He loves when it gets hard and the skin gets smooth yet is still rough, a texture unlike the rest of his skin. He likes sneaking around trying to find places to masturbate. He’s left streaks of cream-colored cum stains on many staircase walls.

He loves women, many forms, many styles, in many ways. Their breasts and nipples, their lips and fingers, their legs and butts, their skin, their imperfections, their smile, their laugh, their moments of being crass, their gentleness and their toughness, their femaleness. They are the inspiration for each time he touches himself. He’s uses imagery and imagination. He lusts after the thoughts of women more than the feeling of ejaculation.

He wishes for many but only needs one. His imagination is all he needs for the others.


Killer Kid

Andy Warhol - GUN
Andy Warhol – Gun

The boy is twelve. The man raped his mother and shot his dad. He was eleven two weeks before. He was happy with two happy parents and a happy little brother two weeks before. He’s twelve and three days old now. He’s down to one parent, who has lost her happiness, her smile faded into a crumble of tear-stained lips, tears that weep so constantly from her eyes that the boy and his little brother have to stay at their grandparent’s house. The grandparents who lost a son. A grandmother who too seemed inflicted by the same dread of ever flowing tears. The boy was twelve with many friends in a neighborhood that talked, on a block that knew everyone, on a street where one of his older friends had a glock. The boy had a habit of listening, eavesdropping, his father called it, information gathering, he called it. His father laughed, his father was fun and funny and loving and is now a was, a past tense. His mother was caring and sweet and playful, now she’s a body on a couch always crying. He was kind, smart, and well behaved, now he’s angry, angrier than he ever knew anyone could be, too angry to listen to his grandfather when he said, “anger does no one any good,” but not angry enough to heed one warning, “bottled up anger leads to trouble.”

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