I make a pretty good living. I live alone. I spend the majority of my time alone, in fact. Every once in a while I’ll think that I should get a Real Doll.

A Real Doll, if you don’t know, is, well, a sex doll. Unlike the inflatable ones that bob along with a look of perpetual surprise, Real Dolls look kind of human. At least, if you’re not looking too closely it looks like a real person. And they’ve got a sort of skeleton so they’re posable. And life size.

My apartment is small. Very small. Sometimes the maintainance people come in for whatever reason. Like, inspections or whatever. Usually I have a few hours notice, but sometimes an emergency comes up.

I wonder how embarrasing it would be to have a Real Doll sitting around when they came by. I guess I could shove it in the closet; there’s barely enough room for that. Or maybe I could leave it out sitting on the couch (in clothes). Maybe that would freak ‘em out.

As long as they didn’t use it. That would be kind of gross. And disappointing. I mean, if I spend a lot of money on a sex doll, I expect it to be faithful to me. Is that too much to ask?

Sure, I know what you’re thinking. I’m just a super horny guy willing to pay money for a person-looking mannequin to get his rocks off. But it’s not just about that. No, it’s a bit worse and it makes me question my sanity a little bit.

It would be nice, see, to have someone else around. Even if she didn’t talk much. Or move much. And, hopefully given the situation, didn’t talk very much. She could even be in the bed as I slept which seems like it would be better than having a big bed all to myself.

I would not take her out to dinner or a movie. Or put her in the car so I can use the carpool lane. She would strictly be a homebody. That seems a bit sane, yes? Maybe?

Much like anything else I think about buying, it’ll never happen. I have a hard time ponying up the money for a computer I want, I’m not going to spend twice as much for something like that.



I don’t like to brag or show off. No, it’s true. Whenever I do, something is apt to go wrong. Like, if I had someone in the car with me and was all like, “Check out how fast this car takes off from a stoplight,” then, when I hit the gas something would happen to make me look foolish. Like the transmission falling out. Or pistons shooting up through the hood. Stuff like that.

I’ve been a bit quiet lately because I’ve had some health issues. They cropped up right after I mentioned that I still had, at least, decent health. So, there you go. It’s nothing serious (so far that I know about), but it’s one thing that’s followed by something else that’s found that requires another visit to a different doctor, etc, etc, etc.

I went to a dermatologist yesterday to see about a mole. Everyone was nice to me. Really nice. The dermatologist herself treated me as if I were some kind of celebrity and kept saying how nice it was to meet me. She was cute. She was younger than me.

And that’s when you start to feel really old. Not just that everyone else is younger than you, but that people are nice to you. I wonder if I were ten, fifteen, years younger if she would have treated me the same (assuming that she was the same age). I think people tend to forget that, despite a large age difference, people still have an active sex drive and that it’s fairly common for older people to find younger people attractive.

I’m still waiting for the announcement that ‘they’ have figured out how to extend life and keep people looking younger longer. I actually don’t think it’s that far out; maybe not in my lifetime, but maybe not much longer than that. Which would figure.

But age is weird, anyway. Living from birth to age 30 seems like a really long time. Living from 30 to 60… yeah, it doesn’t seem that long at all. For most of your life you’re old, which is why it’s amusing to us to watch the younger generation act all high and mighty. Like thinking old people shouldn’t be on the Internet. Or lording over their mastery of SnapChat. Whatever that is.

That’s the way it goes, though.


I’m not. Maybe I could have been. I don’t know. Many people wish they had time machines. I know I do. Actually, what would be better would be the ability to go back in time in my own body with my knowledge of the future intact. That is, go back to when I was about seven and be a seven year old but still have all the knows I have now. Like of English. It sure would make school easier. I could also fix all the stupid things that I’ve done that led me to this point in life. Alas, it is not be.

The other thing I would like to have is an alternate Earth machine. I’d like to slide to all the alternate dimensions of Earth and see what was different in each one. Like the show Sliders, except controllable. What would the world be like today if Atari hadn’t been mismanaged so badly by everyone? Who knows?

I’m writing twice today because I have nothing better to do. That’s a lie. I have a lot of things I need to do, I just didn’t feel like doing them. Being an adult, I can say things that like. Take out the garbage? I don’t feel like it. Wash the dishes? I would, but I really don’t feel like it. I should take a shower, except I don’t feel like it. And there isn’t anyone to know the difference because I am alone.

Since I had four days off again (for the third time in the space of 30 days which would normally seem pretty cool, except it’s only just screwed up my sleep/wake pattern. Indeed, having two days off work so many times has just made it even more difficult to do what I want to do because I’m so tired I need the rest so by the time I feel like doing something, I’m on my way to work). Oh my God, that long parenthetical derailed my train of thought.

Oh, right. What I should have done was grabbed the camera and gone off to one of the towns I’ve been meaning to go to. I like taking pictures of small towns. I think they’re neat. I wish I could move to a small town that had a restaurant and a bar and where my house was close enough I could walk there. I would never cook dinner and I would seriously try to get drunk at least one night a week. I’d be around people, presumably. Hopefully people who wouldn’t want to hit me on the back of the head and leave me in a ditch.

I also should have done some editing on my two remaining stories for my other blog. Maybe it would be nice to put some effort into them for a change, rather than just dumping them out and letting them loose on the world. The three people that read it might appreciate that. On the other hand, those three people rarely understand what I’m trying to accomplish, anyway, so maybe they wouldn’t.

What does any of this have to do with being famous? Not a lot. I could have played football for my high school. Maybe it would have been a way for me to get into college. Maybe I could have gone pro and made some money before my knees gave out. I could have been having sex all the time until meeting someone to settle down with in my mansion paid for by Japanese soap commercials.

Maybe I could have really buckled down, gone to college, and started writing. Really writing. With, like, a circle of like-minded friends who would be a kind of inspiration or competition environment. Maybe I could have written a best selling book about a boy who turns out to be the most powerful wizard ever and then had movie deals out the ass and be a multi-billionaire heroically funding the exotic car market.

Perhaps I could have gotten into photography earlier and had started taking pictures of models and having sex with them and then getting all pissy because I’m an artist, damn it! Everything I do is art! Soup cans my ass! Let’s go to a rave!

I’m not any of those things. Hell, I can’t even work up the energy to be a kind of lovable villain who commits crimes and the public loves them. I’m just a sad old fart writing an incognito blog. I don’t even have a Patreon account.

Maybe I should find something serious to write about. Something that people might actually look at when they’d like to know something. But what?