I had my first serious relationship at 16. I dated this girl for a little over two years off and on (mostly on). When we broke up we both thought that we could stay friends... (forever?) Which, I guess, we are, without all the talking or hanging out.

Anyway, as we were trying to remain friends we would hang out and do random things together, things like drive around aimlessly and purchase a bunny and watch movies. As we struggled to find reasons to enjoy each other I had a lame idea.

A very lame idea.

I told her that if we missed each other we could look at the stars and like hold hands with each other via the stars that are Orion's hands. I want to say I worded it a little better but who knows. Oh to be 18, or whatever.

The saddest part is that I am not an incredibly creative person. At the time this ex swooned over this and we both got very huggy about it. So I have since told this exact same thing to, at least, two other ex's. Trying in vain to find some way to connect with women (girls?) on a meaningful level. The result of which is that whenever I see this constellation I am riddled with guilt. Typically, also riddled with the names of the girls that I have this poetic outer-space, hand-holding orgy with.

Underwater

The bench in front of the wal-mart at 2am has a great view of nothing.

ad hoc collections of car dealerships, home audio storefronts, and nothing.

You can sit and see the miles of pavement roll into the bridge, and then the ocean. It's close enough to the river(s) that you can smell them instead of the exhaust you would smell if you sat there during the day.

Nothing out of the ordinary for a substantially intoxicated person to purchase 2 bottles of Aspirin and a bottle of water. The whole thing was very natural. The few cars that did pass me added a nice touch of "not being alone" or "maybe it's not that bad."

The shameless text messages that would have been my legacy, serve as a sign post of brilliant idiocy. Lizzy was right to slap the stupid out of my mouth when I finally walked back to the party.

"I was just being drunk and stupid, sorry guys. Mind if i sleep in your van tonight?"

hours later, I was underwater in the back of a volkswagon bus. like bobbing for apples and vomiting curdled milk at the same time. By the time I managed to walk up the stairs to tap on the window and ask for a ride to the hospital, my eyes were only so much useless water in my skull. By the time the cop pulled us over for speeding to get to the hospital, all I could hear was an embarrassing roar in the back of my mind.

Like every drop in the ocean was calling me a loser in unison.

"you've metabolized too much of it for charcoal, we're going to have to go with a laxative."

"sorry we already gave you the charcoal."

You don't know humble until you're shitting black into a free standing commode in an emergency room. wiping what feels like molasses and tastes like blood onto your poorly tied gown. You can't appreciate "oh man, I'm such a dumb-ass," until two of your best friends are holding your stupid fucking hands while an orderly wipes blood out of your eyes.

Stupid doesn't even begin to describe how I felt.

Dull is being catheterized because you can't wake up fast enough to pee in a cup. Boring is pissing all over yourself because the nurse couldn't get it in the right way because you were busy cussing her and fidgeting.

"I'm stupid and selfish." is all you can say when anyone wants to talk to you about anything. Unless you're begging for solid food or a cigarette.

"please don't baker act me." somehow translates into "baker act me," when you're mumbling with a tube up your nose and into your guts. Trying your best to look and sound like someone who didn't just get all Golden Corral on some Bayer.

I'd like to say that it was because I didn't feel appreciated by my girlfriend, or maybe because my dad bailed when I was a child. I don't know for sure, but I think it had more to do with the fact that I was bored.

Everything since then has been a lot more satisfying.

When I was at circles of Care I met a guy who ate a handful of razor blades because he'd watched as his girlfriend died from an Oxy OD.

He was positively buzzing with life. I left him my pack of cigarettes when I got out as a show of thanks for giving me some wisdom that I live by to this day.

"Don't eat razor blades."

touched for the very first time...

I think I was fifteen years old the first time I jacked off. I had heard about it before and wondered exactly what it was. Sometimes in the shower I would get hard and I would be completely dumbfounded. I used to just slap my dick against the palm of my hand because that felt sorta good.

One day on the bus ride home from school, one of my friends explained a talk that his father (step-father, maybe?) had had with him. My friend went on to describe the mechanics of masturbation. I was intrigued, to say the least. I was also mildly horrified that his father could calmly explain all of this to him. Just not how we did things in my household.

Later that night I stealthily crept into the bathroom and gave it the old college try. I think I was just standing over the toilet like I would if I were pissing. I had an extra difficulty here. My dick curves pretty sharply to the left. Peeing isn't typically a problem unless I'm hard in which case I have to step back and to the right. This was completely different. I was standing over the toilet sort of leaning over it so that my junk was angled down and just stroking.

I started to think that my friend had made the whole thing up because nothing was happening. In addition to worrying about someone knocking on the door, I also started to get a little bored... BUT THEN! A slight tingling. And an intense desire to continue. After a while (probably 30 seconds) something magical happened. I almost fell over but thankfully I was bracing myself on the tank part of the toilet. Hard to say where exactly the cum went. Having never seen it before I wasn't really sure what to look for. I think I maybe put my pants on too soon because I felt a little sticky later on while I was laying down.

The point of all this is that this is where all the trouble started. It was like a drug to me. This feeling... This tingling... This release... This awesomeness. I didn't know what to do about it. I only now (a mere ten years later) have begun to grasp appropriate ways to deal with it.

One way, write about it on the internet.

I get HIV, part III.

"I'm so sorry to hear it.."

"you've broken our hearts D."

"We've been looking into it, you're going to be ok."

"..."

"Jesus, I guess I should get tested."


and they did. All of them, it was still a little blurry to me just how inbred my social circles were. From tip to tip, Brevard county was grasping desperately to ensure their safety. All under the pretense that my dick was far reaching enough to contaminate their drinking water.

Or the shared crotch of central Florida.

Nights grew longer. Daytime became the time that I either slept or crawled to the mall to piss my time away hawking costumes in a seasonal halloween store. Days were when Mary went to work at her clinic to afford us the ability to pack our faces with veritable cornucopia of narcotics and cheep beer. Nights were spent stealing coldpills from wal-mart. The Disbelievers were numerous in the beginning. As the months wore on and my health deteriorated from drug abuse and malnutrition, they became fewer and less vocal. Once confident, "he's a fucking liar," became, "Oh, that whole thing just sucks man." But the party raged on. Nightly raids of whatever party we could find turned up a treasure chest of stolen underwear, tales of our friend chris hitting another roommate's equally hideous girlfriend in the face with a full beer and the like. More and more people granted me a quiet, if subtly spiteful, veneration.

Sure I was never going to get laid again. But I'll be damned if I hadn't crafted a surreal new world for myself.

The last of the true detractors, a close friend while drunk, punched me in the face and gave me a big open mouth kiss while I was bleeding. A show of solidarity I suppose. Or maybe he thought I would cave and tell him I was bluffing.

I Didn't, but it was certainly romantic to feel an overwhelming affection for a person who I typically wanted to kill for washing our dishes in the bathtub and leaving them there. While wandering around the high school campus whacked out of my mind on goofballs and penny-whistles, I saw one of my old teachers.

"Hey, I heard somethi.."

"Yup!"

"Thats awful, what are you going to d."

"Nothing!"

and I ran as far and as fast I could away from campus. I was ready to die from complications from my illness. I wanted pneumonia, kidney failure, something, anything to take elevate me from what was rapidly becoming my Leper village of an apartment. The smell of rotten food and an honest to god landslide of garbage falling from the kitchen had set an atmosphere. Someone had kicked the front door off its hinges and paint-balled our living room. There were more strangers sleeping on the wrap-around couch than friends. One night I ate a handful of Dramamine with one of the last representatives of the apartment. 30 or so pumpkins filled our living room. I stood up to make my way to my room after saying good night. Then I fell face first over a pumpkin, the sound of my teeth clicking like an ice cube bouncing off the tile. I stood up, my friend trying to comfort me but unable to make the walk himself.

I fell many more times before I gave up.

Mary came to steal my roommates possessions the next day. Not thinking, I helped.

Then I got into another car, and fled laughing with my mercurial douche baggery.

I slept on a floor with Rhino and 4 other people in a 20 x 20 studio apartment on the beach. Cool beach air and a mason-jar filled with a C+C+C/Dramamine cocktail.

I hid from Mary. I hid from HIV. Not many came to visit. We wandered around. An old friend stabbed me with a blow-dart in the thigh. I got into an argument with one of the roommates.

so I left. I stood over my pumpkin friend and his girlfriend in what had been my room, from just before dawn til just after first light. I watched them sleep. I breathed to match their breathing. I sat and looked out the window over the somehow beautiful lawns of our crack village. I smelled rotten pumpkin all around, the pungent smell of a halloween aborted before the first doorbell was rung. I looked through my desk for my switchblade which someone stole from me in my week or so absence. I packed my backpack. I washed. My friends all woke up. They asked where I was going.

"North."

I rode north through truck-stops with people named Bernie, Clyde or Peacemaker.

regardless of that story.

when I came back, I had finally seen New York.

I wasn't dating Mary.

I didn't live in a hole with rotten pumpkins on the floor.

and

I didn't have HIV.

now all i had to do was convince everyone else.

a brief interlude.

There are somethings here at Unfuck Yourself that we simply do not post about. Most of these things being our interactions with each other. It simply goes without saying that we try our best not to give each other away, such is the nature of our lives.
Ex's, specific references to people that REALLY don't want to be listed here, having sex with mentally handicapped, doing drugs with local politicians, etc. are all things that while may seem REALLY fucked up, that is the nature of this site.

we write about fucked up things.

things that WE do.

names are changed, certain facts omitted, certain ideas embellished, for the simple fact that this is a workshop for us to better release our deviant natures. not to hurt people more than we have/may have/want to.

but if you're hurt.

I'm sorry.

I'll take it up with god.

he'll let it slide on account that his son was fucking a whore.

I get HIV. part II.

Now Mary is a lot of things.

compassionate is not one of those, so her arrival on I95 late that night (specifically to pick me up no less) was an oddity.

attractive is also not one of those things. with a face like an animal, glasses that somehow made her even less charming and a personality like a fucking beaten dog whose turned on its owners. She made all my ex-girlfriends look like supermodel psych-grad students.

strung out on coke IS one of those things.

Funny thing about cocaine...
it goes very well with pretty much all other mind/mood-altering substances. like cold pills.


So that was the summer I spent living in a rancid garbage dump of an apartment. getting fucked and fucked up with a gnarly looking broad who despite her short comings, really took care of me. On many nights we would put away a few grams, I would chow down on 2-3 boxes of the sweet little C+C+C. And from there things would spin violently out of control. on one such occasion I built a pyramid of furniture and debris in my room. perched naked on a lawn chair at the top and delivered a sermon to my only follower, a crackhead who'd moved into my living room with his meth-ridden strumpet from miami and their cat. Autumneer.

Also on that occasion, Mary began speaking to me in german while she was losing her mind on the cough medicine.

(Before we get much further, I'm being honest. As much as I really wish I wasn't, I made it two steps out of high school and fell right into the bottom of the god damned barrel. oh yeah, p.s. this bitch sucked.)

We would have sex, she would mumble things in german, I would interpret them into strange and important snippets of info. Like a news ticker in hell.

After not too many nights of this, Mary began bringing home syringes with saline so we could start mainlining our drugs instead of putting them up our noses.
From there we began joking about how "terrible it would be if we got hepatitis from one of the wierdos at the dialysis clinic she worked at".

then amidst a sub-par blow job, I came to the conclusion that hepatitis would be unfortunate. but cancer or AIDs, or something, THAT would be a real shame.

lots of attention and a license to crawl around on my guts forever.

so Mary went to work fudging the shit out of her blood test that her office made her take. we made a few copies. hid them around the house where the roommates would find them, unable to keep their noses out of our fucking business. then voila!

"hey D. I need to talk to you...."

I had HIV.