September 最後の半: Drag, Beef, and Tokyo

Wednesday September 27, 2017

I think people have a hatred toward acquaintances who are rising in the world. We don’t want to see people we know succeed and become well-known, because it means they’ve worked harder to achieve it. Or were lucky. Either way it hurts. So it’s predictable that toxicity and discouragement would follow. Or at least, the lack of support. Indeed, in a world where everyone can be equally lucky but unequally ambitious and hard-working, every degree a rival rises is a degree of difference between our competences.

These are just afterthoughts of Evil Editor’s peer revision process. The query is always never good enough for the dozen or so cynical trolls who haven’t better things to do with their time than to discourage someone so nearby from propelling into significance.

And I wish I could write this in Arabic. I was reading Souhaib Ayoub’s Facebook posts, and he is rubbing salt in the wound I made when I tore Arabic out of my heart so long ago. The hoes have planted small shrubs with comedy and action, but he would be a prime pollinator.

Ken dressed me in drag and it was super. I could unleash the femininity that domination gagged and tied up. I looked so innocent and angelic. My name: Cash Only. Shall I pursue? I don’t know…

These are things I can worry about after Saturday. I plan on entering Inkubus’s Stroking Alter Egos anthology and this damn story won’t finish itself. Life drags me through the tales of my destiny but it is I who must finish my own tales.

I’m sitting in the room of Dakota’s brother, in Shimo-Kitazawa Tokyo, a place where I, symbolically, am unable to decipher in Kanji.

Tokyo is fucking huge.

Tokyo is where Japanese are most alive, and where Japanese are most dead. Day and night, Salarymen march in their pedestrian way side by side with goths, punks, and loud people. Suits and ties brushing shoulders with spikes and piercings and blush and hair-dye. Perhaps symbiotically. Hard-edged high-rises, some a single unit of business, others broken into floors—windows, of separate establishments. Pockets and drawers and endless shelves of bars, restaurants, part-time jobs, branding, funny English, obscurity, desperation.

The desire to succeed under/over the weight of a billion people. Interwoven into the darker fabric of grave visitations: rent and insurance and mortal needs.

Nagoya is prim and pleasant. Tokyo is intense.

It’s also humongous. You would know it’s my third time coming here and Tokyo owes me money. Today, I was happy to receive part of that.

I had an early morning date. A first-time sub. Wasn’t keen on my feet, couldn’t take my dick from mouth or ass, and I was suggesting the termination of our date before I asked if he has any last requests. He wanted me to lick his nipples and help him masturbate.

I asked him “what’s in it for me?”

One thing led to another and we settled on 2,000 (Yen). I presumed to lick his nipple and he guided my arm under his back so that my hand reached his other nipple, and I felt like I was playing a most uncomfortable brass instrument. I was blowing on one button, and calibrating by hand with the other button. Meanwhile, with both his hands cushioning his moaning head I realized he’s not going to jerk himself off. He’s gonna fully enjoy his measly 2,000. I grabbed his dick—that fit cutely into my fist—and jerked him off my damn self.

3 uncomfortable minutes later, he cums, wipes off, and puts the money on the table. I told him I’m leaving Friday. Would be nice to have another efficient transaction like that.

I then went to the bank for a trivial bureaucracy, dragging poor Dakota with me. Damn banks.

I hope the documents I assembled will be enough to get my damn visa. God. What hatred visas muster up in me. Who’s to blame: my fucked up warlords or the idea that any traveler from country A has the potential to be worse than someone from country B? The anger is conjured and I don’t know where to toss it.

But I had an EPIC date afterward. A big, buff Jap. Oh it was heavenly. He liked me! He even took pictures of my dick. I was so flattered. I was so happy to be embellished with all the warm muscle. Oh it was the stuff of things I only write about. His arms felt like there were steel pipes inside them. So hard, so hot, so jagged.

Organic power. I’ll elaborate later. He’s coming to Nagoya next week.

Also, today I found out that someone I don’t know liked my Facebook page. I have never felt a formal responsibility to write until now.

And remain, classy.

When is it alright to complain… in our hyper-media world where I see billionaires and those below the poverty line separated by Youtube clicks, when can I feel that my angst is valid?

This Dima room thing… is getting to me again. Every single inconvenience I am facing is his fault, and her fault. The distribution of that burden onto each of them remains to be decided but he shall get the brunt of it because it’s his actions. And I’d hate to fall back down this slope that led me to savage him, because I have to remember—which I fail to do—several things:

  • She has issues. He needs to be with her.
  • His cleanliness OCD makes me nervous and stressed.
  • Our separation was inevitable.
  • He apologized.

Therefore I am not angry at him anymore. In fact, I’ll need to be on his good side because I need his rent while I search for another flatmate. If it stretches after October—after the university ceases its role as guarantor to landlords—I’ll have to pay the fine of the guarantor company hired by Dima forthwith. Only his damn expenses, not hers. He could be moving in with a car of circus clowns for all I care. I only owe it to him and what he does with his life is his own responsibility and business. Judge Judy has taught me a few things.

But I cannot and will not forgive aaaaaaaaalllllllll the stress this has caused me.

I flipped through the damn pamphlet of single-bedroom apartments. It’s a two-room shit studio with no proper cooking space. None. Nada. Bubkiss.

The only one that is kind of manageable I’ll inspect soon. Possibly tomorrow after the movie with Maryna…

That’s stressing me out, and then there’s my book. I was served a salad of reviews. Not a soup of consistency. No; different people gave different commentary. The only consistency—the dressing, if you will—was emotion and setting. The author I dominated suggested less talking, more paragraphs. This surgical procedure will take me another year, possibly. It’s like I already wrote a fucking PhD dissertation.

The whim of pursuing a PhD has been stubbed out by Sensei’s enlightening me to the fact that it will take another three fucking years to finish. At least. I’ll make that decision next year. I need something—anything to stay. To at least earn permanent residency. After that, I can pretty much be an escort wherever the fuck I please.

I hope this time next year—next month—I’ll be feeling better. The whole flatmate thing will be resolved, or I find a nice single flat with acceptable living conditions.

I think the theme of all this is me being given less than I fucking—motherfucking deserve.

The friends I thought I have here aren’t poking me. Even after I gave them laughter and tales.

The best friend I thought I had here sold me for a Chinese cunt.

The book I thought was ready to dent the world and pour out its treasures to me apparently still needs work.

I keep hearing voices and seeing unimpressed glances of slight annoyance, asking me why do you think you deserve more from us?

Am I too clingy or is everyone too cold?

Am I the fool in this game called adulthood?

Did I miss something? Did I miss something?

Something important. Something about being independent and adapting… something about just taking life’s shit with a shrug instead of holding the crappers accountable?

Did I miss that? I thought justice was a respectable pillar of relationships. As was love. I had always thought so…

Money would’ve solved everything.

I keep procrastinating with this damn book. I wanted to start—I penciled it in yesterday and today—and nothing. Just a stack of recycled paper, folded into flash-cards like Nadia suggested. A manuscript—the first chapter—with red comments, summarizing the competition judges’ comments. It’s ready but the book feels so heavy, like a corpse whose clothes I have to rearrange. Nobody’s gonna do it for me… but I’m surviving.

It’s not… exciting anymore. It’s just drudgery, and the sound of that word is so true, and so proper. Drudgery. The dragging, the goop, the –ery, as in its somehow prevalent; it exists and has institutions related to it. It’s familiar. It’s been done. It’s something people face. Not pleasantly, but… it’s not a unique problem. It’s just one of those problems. A problem that drags, monotonously, oozing from unexpected places.


But do I have the right to complain? I am being paid to study. I am being paid to get a competitive degree, to be aided in living in a proper state. I do minimal outside work. But I occupy myself with my ambition-goals and I want to save the world so every deadline missed, every task delayed, is oppression alive, is oppression siphoning humanity, and growing more sophisticated. More mechanical…

I’ve been writing on my hands. They remind me that I’m here for me. Indeed I am. I am the adult escort to help me with my affairs. I’m competent goddamnit, and kind and wise and witty. I deserve attention and praise.

If more people checked up on me, things might have been better. I want to feel pursued, not endured.



Like people must satisfy conditions before talking to me. Like reading this diary is a privilege.

It will be one day. Haha.

This is just a little shitstorm. I’ll feel better. I have every reason to feel excellent. I am alive and deserve the best in life simply by virtue of being alive, but by instrument of being me. Of being competent and kind and witty. Principled and welcoming. Dramatic and comedic. Adventurous and lazy as fuck.

I know my worth. My slaves know my worth. I just have to keep producing and be consumed until I’m so in demand that I can slap conditions on my products. But that will require time, and discipline. Uni is making me workkkkk.

But I’ll do my best. Time will pass anyway, might as well lace it with achievements.

And throughout remain, classy.

September week 2: The Iraqis Cometh

Oh my God. What a couple of days I’ve had. I was hired by Shachihata to interpret for a delegation of Iraqis. It was so nice to be around Arabs. I felt like I was around relatives, around uncles and cousins. One of them took my number. I was optimistic, but he wasn’t looking for what I thought he was, I think. He was very cute, in that cuddly macho way, reminded me of Patty.

When taken to meals I was always interrupted to interpret for Mr. Muhannad and Mr. Chuu, of South Korea. This latter was rather obnoxious when we first met two nights ago, but things improved. We were taken to a factory that produces stamping pens. The Iraqis came here to see if they fit the requirements for possible use in their elections. How honored I was to facilitate such a process.

I think I pulled off a good 75% accurate interpretation, with the rest of it me just filling in the blanks with whatever I thought was the logical nugget of information that came next. Because I didn’t understand the Japanese at that point, the lingo about manufacturing, computer programs, robots and shtuff. Still, not major hurdles, but I was wielded to project some harsh words of scolding to the South Koreans through Mr. Muhannad about late emails, about pen parts assembled abroad, and so forth. We ate thrice, and I ate once and a half. I caught a glimpse of Nagoya castle. It was stunning; its stillness contagious.

I felt embarrassment when some of them picked their noses, when they expressed minimal interest in seeing important landmarks, when they slouched at lunch. I knew the Asians were making a negative mental note having never met Iraqis—or Arabs. I hoped my presence, my conscientious, quaint, harmless-seeming self would serve to neutralize it and reduce Arab boorishness to just boorishness; a matter of nurture not nature. Although which would be worse?

But they gave me relief that Kurdistan would not secede from Iraq. That Iraq is rising from the ashes, hungry and ambitious. And able. I was so happy to hear that from my relatives.

They spoke of world tragedies so lightly, however. So soberly, though with a tone of heaviness. Elites can always speak of tragedies at a distance. Reduce them to inevitable upsets. Believe that they will pass and things will just go on.

From their standpoint, I can’t blame them. They’re just watching the peasantry scramble for safety and resources; one out of hundreds of phenomena in the global constellation they gaze at with Perrier in hand and hooker beneath heaving gut.

I was given gifts by the Iraqis and the Japanese. I received an extra Man for my overtime, and for what they saw as a job very well done. From the Iraqis, who had to cut their trip short, I received canned beans, sweets, and other tidbits, packed by mothers caring for their sun-bound sons.

I adulted the other day and registered my inkan. I don’t like official things. They’re reminders of what it is to be an adult: the cognition, the responsibility, the boredom, all because we all live together and we don’t really like each other, we just need to follow the rules. And you’re not young anymore.

One line that stuck with me was from Mr. Muhannad. When I responded to the question about my Japanese ability with “50%”, he jumped to tell me that in Arabic, even his–and thus our–ability is no more than 1% of the language. There is an ocean of words and expressions and we only dabble on the shore. He said, “I am born from an Arab mother and father, and they were born from an Arab mother and father, and so were their grandparents, and their grandparents, and theirs–all the way back to Ismail, and I only speak 1%.”

All back to Ismail.  I felt close to them at that point. Sigh…

Today I’m off to open a bank account, buy a new phone and Japanese number, and browse apartments.

And throughout shall remain, classy.

September 6th: Lebanon, Death, and Supremacy

Dear Diary,

It’s been far too long. Forgot my laptop on a train. The rain was pounding the city. The trains were delayed. I almost missed my flight.

My laptop turned up safe and untouched at a nearby police station. Went with Maryna to pick it up.

Found a piano and living room rearranged. I don’t play piano. He bought it for the luminescent cunt and fuck what I say about our shared spaces. Fuck it no more.

I lined my eyes with black to go into war. The cork popped open and I drenched Dima with built-up ache. I was loud, competent, he weaseled but I tarantula-ed. He lost. Apologized. We have to move out. He apologized either to preserve our friendship in these turbulent waters—that he navigated us into—or to relieve himself of guilt at what he evidently did to me, and then made me do. Or both.

I’d like the friendship preserved. But its repair is entirely at his initiative. I won’t burn bridges. Bfaddel umtas kil she mumkin min l jiha l tenye minma inhe 3ale2ti fiya.

That rule applies to most “hanging friendships” as I like to call them. Friendships that were far sturdier and merry, and now only hang by the shared experiences and inside jokes had by the parties.

Rola gave me a tarot reading. Death and rebirth is the theme of this part of my life, and how accurate, as usual, that is. That I will ride this carnage as Emperor: rationally and in control. This is why I decided not to give too many people a piece of my mind. I must preserve the garbage that it may turn into compost.

My first published essay is out in the Gay and Lesbian Review. I feel fulfilled. I’m being read now by people I don’t know! And thus I must, must begin producing regularly. Blogging weekly.

I wrote about Lebanon in a diary entry here and there. It was spectacular. It was damningly rejuvenating: I’m itching to go back. But I’d feel like a nugget of iron in acid. Like I’m corroding, dying. But look how beautifully I’m decomposing. And I’m numb to it. I can only see it, but not feel it. I must convince myself of it and thus repel all voices that tell me otherwise—even my own senses, of taste, of sight, of sound…hommos and falafel and shawarma, the men, the old houses and verdant hills. Feirouz and Haifa and Lebanese. But corrosion accompanies all of that. Death and mortality lace everything. My wallet bleeds as my heart for my country is a failed state run by devilish devils and how sexy and accursed they are.
I met a former MEXT scholar who is also gay and fetishistic.

I met a celebrity author who said he’d help with my book. His promises are brittle but I assume it’s because he’s busy.

I received scolding from a police officer who did not comment on the tantet. A complete reversal.

I enjoyed my father. We’re both so obnoxious with our loved ones.

I’ll write more here from now on. I have time.

For now I must either sleep or prepare for a translation gig tomorrow. I may do both. I want to penetrate into Japanese high society—any high society, really, that can show and give me the best life has to offer, because I deserve it. I deserve it not only by virtue of living, but by vice of sexy fiendishness and saintly ruthlessness.

Rola also read that I will end up in a place not meant for me. I’ll be the judge of that!

And throughout shall remain, classy.

August 5, 2017: Post-Fuji Rain

I haven’t felt blood pulse against my eyeballs since right before I was jailed.

I don’t have a close enough friend. Who really cares. I’m a spectacle. An alien. I’m a story. I’m a fable becoming legend. But not any close enough friend.

I thought the idea of moving out would make things better, but not quite. I think the real reason I’m so infuriated is because I feel like I’m being replaced by Dima. Like I’m not good enough. And the response is either make myself more appealing, which is pathetic, or burn all disregard to his opinion, which would seal the deal and not make him regret his decision any.

I want him to suffer as I am now. I want our friendship not to wane like a thinning thread of oil, but cut like a cow’s neck on a butcher’s knife. Wailing in shock. Chopped off, fluids chaotically bursting out. Because that is what this entry is.

I don’t know what to do about that luminescent cunt. Same thing: patheticize myself for her comfort or cathartically burn her with cutting stares and dagger quips.

El Elissa ba3atitle voice 3mbit2illeh addaysha mishte2a w b3rifsh shu. It was either comically fake or amateurly fake. Then she says she wants me to be in her jam3iyye. No.

Then bobzi l shlikki l aslan 7abla rafee3 ma3e mish ebleneh ta3milli like 3a my page. Okay. Don’t support me. I was foolish to expect it. But when he will it will be too late. It’s really kind of over between us. There’s too much catching up. Mountains between us. And he doesn’t seem to want to cross over and visit. Close the gaps. No…

I have to let him go. I have to make it painful. He wants it to wane, like a thinning thread of oil. But I want it to hurt because it’s hurting me…

Nobody cares… nobody understands… I’m a glossy two-dimensional superhero.

Bobzi and I aren’t friends anymore. We’re acquaintances and I will tell him this in person if we ever even meet in person again. I’m not walking away from this friendship happy or intact like some horribly mature thing. I’m hurt, and sad, but I want to stop this frustration and constant questioning and contemplation of what makes someone a friend… what are the criteria of friendship?


Bala falsafeh.

If you just nod, page, then you will become my closest friend. Just any indication that you’re there, listening, caring. Loving…

But alas, you’re two-dimensional too. Things like us are taken for granted…

Two weeks in Lebanon. After that we’ll reach a decision with moving out. Ideally, I’d want minimal hassle, minimal payment, minimal time to do everything. Ideally, I’d want maximum drama, maximum pain, maximum legacy.

But we have so many mutual friends. Surely we’ll be gathered coincidentally. But I’d leave. I’d leave after remarking on how cold-blooded reptiles are drawn to luminescent cunts. How breeding is cliché and unnecessary nowadays. How tasteless people are.

The blacksmith of daggers is sleep-smithing and I’ll wake up tomorrow with an unfortunately capable arsenal.

I am meant to be writing here. This is why the people who call are often inconvenient, and the people who don’t are often sorely missed, and the people who should are bastards and the people who won’t are tasteless.

If I am to be a spectacle forever, then I will be the most spectacular spectacle. I will capitalize and maximize. I will be a happy, healthy, and holy spectacle. I will be the smiling Mona Lisa.

The worst part is that this seems irreversible. Even if he and LC (Luminous Cunt)  don’t work out, the fact that he contemplated it will sting for a while. I’ll still want to leave. Or to inflict pain upon him somehow. But doing so betrays how much pain I felt, and that might give him some… relief. So I’m screwed both ways…but I still want him to hurt. Maybe the relief he’ll feel will be cancelled out because of my real intent to harm. The intent to harm is either flattering or more damaging than the act itself. With friends, it will inevitably be both. But the degree of friendship will determine the ratio of those emotions.

Judge Judy says this is all minutia. What really matters is my health, my family’s health, and the world. She’s right. She’s right. I mustn’t let others and their shortcomings affect my health. I must be healthy and strong to save the fucking world I can’t let tiny bitchings keep me from sleep and sanity.

Besides, I’m using every blaze of wrath to power my writing. It’s in my wrists, crackling, popping, maneuvering…

I should really write more.

So the strategy is wreck the ship while the damage is still worthwhile. But wait, for now…

And be classy.

土ー日 曜日20・21・05 いい作った

Saturday, May 20, 2017 2 AM


No word from Fouad yet… it’s devastating in a way stickier and more oily than I’d ever imagined. A huge dose of happiness has been stripped from my days, and I’m scraping my daily life in search for crumbs of it…unsuccessfully.

I contemplated playing Yugioh today. Yes, it’s that bad. But I have so much work to do, and half of it is self-demanded. In other words, it’s the stuff of dreams and ambition. No grades. No stranger granting you relief or praise. No objective approval. Just a canvas, a few comparative paintings, and your bleeding soul.

Fucking god this insight club at AUB. It’s like two steps forward and one step back. I just regurgitated a piece of my mind on several of their posts. 5aliyon yinteko ywatto sawt l aden la2an waj3et ras w biwa33eena bl layl. Mabadda iste7a sa7???

This Facebook is getting really stupid. I shouldn’t be up wasting my time and passion on an unappreciative and unresponsive page just to get liberal cool points.

I wish I were bulletproof. Then I could really do stuff.

Sunday 3 AM

After a long and productive day, I found that Fouad changed his cover photo. He has been active. He did not my message. I gave him a reason to be more thorough.

I liked his comments on his friend’s profile pic. It was short and sweet. Unnoticeable, except by him.

I put a description for my profile picture: I’m not one to give up.
And one status: I hope you find my persistence flattering.

And they’re both sincere.

I have no idea what to do except wait. I have planted seeds in the thorns. Will they bloom? I hope so… I’m not expecting an absolutely positive response. I’m just craving contact. I just need closure.

I don’t want to insult him though I easily can… but no… I mustn’t, not while there’s a ripe chance of reconciliation.

Worked on my non-fiction Michael piece. It’s going great. I have a framework. It’s halfway done, I should say. Should be ready by July. Exciting!

Had Ken the drag queen over for drag race and a kiki. Wonderful company. Such a sad story, too. I’m glad I found him. I finally have a proper friend, I think. A partner in crime. I’m getting ahead of myself, but still, the potential is exiting.

Plus the bitch is one degree of separation from a bunch of drag queens. Good ones.

Went shopping with Masa today. I’m so lucky to have him. I’m lucky he likes me. I’m lucky I found someone with real good taste. There, that’s what I meant to say.


Monday, May 22, 2017

Rejected a straight couple on couch-surfing. I think it is a matter of etiquette to look a little needy and not perfect before asking for help. Because it is help, it’s not a story to tell your corporate friends at your 5-star chalet to fool all of you into thinking that your life is “real”, and that you’re “one of the people.”


Still no word from Fouad but I don’t mind at this point. He doesn’t know I’m as great a loss as I know he is to me, and that is so, so frustrating, but it is a point to start the “getting over” process.

Was featured in an article by the Washington post. Unnamed, of course. Sloppy journalism, but understandable unnecessary.

Had a very productive weekend. My checklist is a mess of violent scratches, concealing the tasks beneath them, the many many tasks and this being the last.

Worked on the non-fiction essay. Very very happy. Writing doesn’t give as big of a dose as dopamine, but it is a constant, sure trickle. To me, at least. Right now, at least.

Turns out the Arabs I hang out with kinda already knew I was gay. So much for surprises, so much for acting. Blah, I’m in Japan, fuck the Oscar.


Had a nice moment with Masa. He was cuddling to me, as Feirouz sang from my phone.

Bayti ana baytak.

She was singing to God, and I felt him singing it to me. I felt powerful, easily benevolent. I am careful with his heart, and he is masterful with my cock.

The cards you draw, right?

I remain, classy.

土曜日06・05・2017 もっと女性の文

It’s 2 AM and I’m here to spill. I’m just starting to make an effort to like and appreciate women. I started convincing myself that they are the original faggots.

Yeah, my roommate’s girlfriend is as delightful as a dandelion and how I’d love to pluck her and watch her dissipate and disappear with a blow from my lips.

It all started when he said he’s thinking of moving in with her. Okay, ouch? I’ve known you and we’ve been friends for a year and just like that you wanna up and leave me. I don’t think he appreciates me. I think he takes me for granted, and I can certainly see how I could be annoying to him—to anyone—at times, but then a sheer blessing at other (many other) times. I’m generous, I’m witty, I’m resourceful and a great cook.

He actually has yet to offer me a treat when I offered him plenty of mine. Alright, rule of thumb: No more treats for thee. Asshole.

And she’s probably so glad on the inside that she causes this difficulty. Alright, maybe I’m being too dramatic. Yes… she’s too simple to be so exquisitely conniving. Too simple…plain…dull…replaceable at best and useless at worst. God.


Some women.

His tone spiked tonight after I told him my reasons for not using a sink net. Basically, it makes it difficult to siphon out the water, but he said otherwise the sink gets harder to clean due to bits and pieces getting stuck. So I said that’s why we use acid. He went quiet. I don’t think he wants to be fallible in front of her. Nooo, he wants to be strong and smart in front of me, the half-man, and in front of her, the


Some women.

The net was her idea. We have nothing against each other personally, but this triad has been a sharp one for me. Maybe I’m being selfish but they stayed up until fucking 1 AM watching some ridiculously annoying anime after I told him, privately, that I wanted to sleep soon. Fucking God I can just feel his disdain of me. He’d pick her over me any day. For any activity. Always, and it makes me very sad.

A cunt won over me.

Some cunts.

Well she’s a rather remarkable cunt, it seems. He’s picky. Whatever.

Anywho, today Masa blew me while they were in the house. If she doubles as my cockblocker then I’ll have a real issue on my hands, not some dramatic bitterness over first-world problems. Cockblocking is what refugees must endure in the absence of sexual health and contraception. It’s a real bitch.

Some bitches.

Blah. Today the off-season cravings itched in the pit of my stomach. It’s just terrible. Cravings is such an appropriate word. KKKRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAVVVVVVVVV-ings, ings as in it’s something people have, it’s common, and there’s several of them. But the KKKRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAVVVVVVVVVV is really the sound of those itches in my stomach. And my soul.

Just one month, and I’m back to ravenous omnivoria gastronomica. Ah that sounds Italian—such a fine tongue.

I’m listening to opera these days. Like dark chocolate. No perfect fifth or fourths at every corner of a measure. No…there is stagnation, a glide, if you will, that makes the ascendance rare and appreciated and glorious. Countless songs have countless hooks, but opera’s calm majesty remains timeless.

And I remain, classy.

土曜日 四月29, 2017: 必要な 女性

Never have women been so important to me. More than ever before, women are taking a central position in my schemes and my ambitions. They’re no longer the dainty fairies I pass by without a second thought, the cheerleaders who support me because they are fag-hags. No.

Now, they’re literary agents, and potential dates for my Prince.

I really suck at scheming. I wish I were patient and knowledgeable enough about psychology and warfare to plan a smoother path toward my goals. I am meant to live and write about it, than to study and execute it.

I want to serve my Prince. All our exchanges go so nicely. He is divinely predictable, in that I never have to worry about a quirk or a reactionary yank nullifying my charms; on the contrary: I don’t have to think about anything I tell him. And this makes our conversations much more organic. He is seeing the real me, the fiend-in-training, the kind and clever and clumsy. And badass.

I wake up to check my Facebook and if it’s a notification, it’s certainly from him because no one else seems to give a damn. The juvenile excitement as I unwrap the screen with my password and proceed to open his message…

I’ve never been anyone’s sub. Whether or not I should stress this point to him remains undecided. If I stress it, he would respect my consistent position on the masculine side of faggotry, and if I do not mention it, he won’t have to think about it and possibly get uptight based on what he knows about submission. But, when I told him I wanted to ask him something, something important, he said he’d “gas” me if it were a gay thing. I don’t know the answer, but I can certainly sell it as not gay. Truthfully, because it is not lust that makes me want to serve him. I don’t get hard when I see him, or speak to him, my heart beats faster but it isn’t love either. He’s proof of the beauty in this world. And when we speak it accentuates this point. His straightness is proof of the cruelty of this world, but I know that were he gay, I wouldn’t be attracted to him. Certainly not as much.

But it remains that he will deliver if I do. I am rummaging my mind, in search of an overlooked slut. And I hate how in writing this I feel a dread from some activist or another telling me not to use that word – only to be told by another activist or another that the word is perfectly fine and women are free to fuck as they please. They certainly are and slut is not an insult, I just can’t find the word for a sexually active woman. It’s sad. I should come up with one and use it here as it will be come up a lot.

The word for sexually active woman shall be: Harlequin. A bimbo can be a harlequin but a harlequin doesn’t have to be a bimbo, and bimbos are what the Prince wants.

Anywho, I’m not a bimbo magnet. I should say I’m not an active bimbo magnet. Bimbos mean nothing to me because when I speak with women I enjoy their ideas and conversations. I couldn’t give a damn about their clothes or other shallow topics. This is why I don’t actively court bimbos. Elissa does that, because Elissa is limited. Other faggots also do that. I wish I had a couple of bimbos for this mission. Now I have to arrange them, pretending to be the gay stereotype and exude optimum faggotry for maximum fag-hag attraction.


I’m putting querying on hold. There are a few things I want to change in the book. Very minor, but any motion toward perfection must be executed. Further, I must find better comparable titles, and must ensure that my ‘universal’ query is up to scratch. I’ll keep spamming that damn shark. God… women!

In the meantime, I must seek publication of shorter works. I should just read a journal to understand how they work, and how to shape the mold of my demons.

In other news, I’ve realized that I mustn’t be greedy with my gems. Doing so assumes that I cannot come up with more, which is not a good paradigm nor a fact.

A poet turns life into poetry. A poet actively takes anything in this world and transforms it into poetry. A writer does the same. Thus I can never run out of material; I am actively ingesting this world and from my palms reweaving it. Reducing it. Flattening it. Filtering it, feebly, optimistically, egotistically, benevolently.

More raw material is constantly dumped on me: the passing of time. No worries. No greediness. I must always deliver my best.

Finally, I think the time has come for me to cease my musical activity. The band is boring as fuck and just as enthusiastic about my ideas. Further, I can sing but am not a singer.

May 13 is my official departure from the band until Adeliene and her originals return. Fuck covering the rolling stones.

I remain, classy.

I remain, classy.

Monday, April 18th.

Sunday Kyoto trip with the family. Mama is a sphere in the land of lines. She bounces along, not belonging, but not complaining. We went to two nice locations: The Golden Temple and The Thousand Gates. Honestly, it was underwhelming. I think my nervous system has been conditioned to need more to secrete the happy signals. It’s terrible. I need dopamine.

It rained today, very inconsiderately. I skipped the gym. I’m just quite tired…

I’m reading Borrowing Blue by Lucy Lennox and ruing the day I caved in to commercial tastes. By comparison, my book is fucking Wuthering Heights. God it’s so bad. It makes 50 Shades a few shades more respectable. The starch, the seclusion, the coincidences and long lines of dialogue. Just an immature and premature piece of bullshit. Women make life hard enough for us gays. Must they depict us as silly, predictable, horny, godlike creatures who just know good sex instinctively? Fag-hags…

Things are progressing with the Prince. He’s showing me a kind of manly nonchalance, a chillness about being around me, being pampered by me. It’s still in its infancy, but this is the matter that I want to develop and cocoon both of us in. I’ve been talking to him every day. Low flame my ass, I’m impatient!

Imp… Asian T.

Finished a reading assignment for law class tomorrow. Interesting, demanding… hopefully not too demanding.

I imagined my father becoming a refugee. Him and his pride, forced to orate and get sympathy. His picture would be his disheveled hairs, unapologetically broad face, and eyes open like yes I’m poor, alone, made bad decisions BUT you are also flawed! You are! You’re not better than me!

And this bitch he’s about to marry. Screw it, maybe after the third failure, something will tick in him that he’s actually insufferable. It’s very possible. And when it happens, my advice will be right in the long-run for a change. Which is why he’ll do his best to make it work, and with that worry over his head – my righteousness – the domino piece that will destroy his fatherhood – he’ll think twice about reproaching her.

Lucky bitch.

I’m floating in this life, on a thousand blessings, feeling so heavy. So unsatisfied – or maybe too satisfied. Is this why I don’t enjoy conversations? Because it’s less dopamine?

I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist. I think I’m on to a grand conspiracy.

Material for the sci-fi is dripping in slowly, but surely. I just have to architect it properly, then proceed to flesh it out. Exciting!

The non-fiction piece… is very enterprising as well. I should write material for those as often as I can…reading bullshit romance accomplishes only the opposite of its pathetically desired intent.

I remain, classy.



金曜日April 7.

Friday, April 7, 2017

Listening to Blue Oyster Cult. Guiltless cheesiness.

Today Trump bombed a military base in Syria in response to Bashar Al-Assad’s chemical attack on civilians. This is what I read. Maybe Assad didn’t use chemical weapons.  Maybe it wasn’t a military base that was bombed. Maybe it wasn’t Trump who wanted it.

The truth slithers away, of course, when you approach critically. It is there, smaller than assumed, but solid. Even in the dark, truth is solid. Some things are up for opinion, but a rock is a rock is a rock.

I don’t know what to think. Many of his supporters opposed the move, but TC approved it. Sharing it countless times under capital yes’s. I was upset: Here was a straight white male uneducated trigger-happy Texan doing the predictable. Even when Trump’s facebook wall is drenched with his supporters’ disappointment, TC refuses to concede. It’s as precious as it is precarious.

Whatever. All I can do is write. Ranting solves NOTHING. Facebook is a diffusion mechanism. OUTSIDE is where CHANGE happens.

All I can do is write. I love my mind, I love my writing. I love my musical sense, my visual sense, I am in love and in awe of my cognition, and I must not waste it on individuals. I must hammer it onto ideas and works, refining them, welding them, striking until the blades are ready, thereafter to be duplicated and be received by inspired hands and TO WAR with ignorance, hatred, and greed.



A person is not my enemy. Greed is my enemy.

No nation is my enemy, Greed is my enemy.

Greed is my enemy, and it has allies.

I got a rejection from another publication for the essay pitch. I was furious: How dare this American publication reject a foreign intersectional voice?! But I civilized myself and asked for advice. They told me they liked the pitch but they are Canadian.

I see. I felt better.

I’ll get there. It’s just a matter of attempts and refinement. Simon and Garfunkel’s first album, Wednesday Morning 3AM, flopped. It has Sound of Silence, yet if flopped. Surely people were stupid, but I listened to the album. It kind of sucked. The only good part was Sound of Silence. And it was the 6th song. Not the first…

They disbanded and almost never were.

I think of these essays as singles. Some will chart, some will flop. I just have to keep producing them and distributing them. It will happen. It is inevitable and I type this with the butter of my soul at my joints, at my knuckles.

Dima comes tonight. Chlassy.

I sent Fouad a Judas Priest song. He asked how did I know that he likes metal? I was so happy. He’s not a basic bro. Things are looking great, but I must use a low flame. Very low, so low, barely there; just a coat of plasma-blue under the cauldron.

I will never lie to him, but I cannot tell him everything.

The supernatural story keeps flashing in my mind. So many ideas… almost too many.

And now I have to master a skill in order to remain in Jap-Anne.