Letter to Krissy:
wombat_part - third book of a letter to Krissy.
Fishing to find the write wombat to right.
Wombat words of wisdom.
wombat_part_02_01

I’m pissed off. The problem is partly to do with not wanting to do anything and having too much to do and knowing there’s no money because I have no job and I’m 2 or 3 kilos too fat so my wife won’t stop nagging me about it. I hate being told what to do, I hate it even more when it’s said more than once. I hate someone trying to explain something to me that I know all too well. As a matter of fact, I hate everything. I’d like to have my own little apartment sometimes. If I was a published writer, I’d have a place that was for me only. Somewhere like the middle of a forest or an uninhabited island. I don’t think I’d need any luxuries. A little of something to eat and clean water and some way to wash up. I’m not too sure if I like it here anymore. Today, not too much, I don’t like my wife today. But I might not like anyone else if they where here. Though I feel I need to write a few more things, I might rather have a more physically demanding mission. Perhaps I’ll go visit a war torn country and fight for survival. Or in the wilderness with a few hand tools. I’d like to build a hut. Even in a tree. Be alone for 6 months then have a few nymphomaniacs visit for a week, then piss off. I tell you something else her Krissy. I’m also pissed off that no one misses me anymore. Especially you. But it was something else that pisses me off and now I forgot so I’m wondering if I’m at all properly pissed off or I’m just bored and can’t decide how to be and pissed off is an easy one. Truth is, though I sometimes can’t stand my wife, other times I can’t image her not loving me. Most anyone knows there’s nothing better than love. I hate that too. I know what I was going to tell you. I’m not too optimistic about finding a publisher. They don’t want the risk of a new writer if it isn’t a book from the latest popular shit movie, like this Evita. Okay, is was well done but Andrew pisses me off making all his musicals the same. Of course I only know the music from Jesus Shit Superfuck but it was all the same. Maybe I missed the point. Anyhow, what I wanted to say is that unless you write a film or a porno, you ain’t going to get out there. So I’m writing a porno. It has nothing but sex. And it’s not going to have much more than that. The little slut needs sex and she’s going to get it from her girl friends, strangers and fuck if I know. I hate it as well. I’ll hate it even more if it’s published and my other works of literature not. In fact, I’m going to stay pissed of until my novels are published. Either that or have children. At my age it’s almost too late. I’m not yet 40 but I’ve been jaded many years and it might be too much for a child. Although children have their way of being cute. That pisses me off as well, how a kitten can be so cute. I’m glad I’m allergic to cats or I’m sure we’d have one. I think I need something different. I know moving somewhere won’t help, I’ve done that often enough to know. I want a different me. Though I know it’s not nice to kill people, I’d like to be a trained assassin. Do a year of training, then get some well paid assignments. Maybe I could shoot those people that throw bombs at women who want to have abortions. I’m not big on abortions and I’m not a woman so I wouldn’t be in a position to know but if a 14 year old girl thinks she wants an abortion rather than having an unwanted child, that’s her right to decide, as far as I can see, so if someone thinks it ain’t her right and wants to blow her up to make their point about pro-life, I’d shot ‘em. I mean, if it was my job. I’d shoot a few other people as well, if it was my job. I’d want the right to not shoot someone if I thought it wasn’t proper to shoot ‘em. I’d shoot many people though. I think it would be fun. I’m not sure how long it would be fun. It would certainly suck the small one if there were people shooting at me. People who write shit down, don’t need to be shot.

I was thinking of your big sister the other day. I was thinking how I would like to have sex with her. She was such a hot little bitch. There’s something about a hot little bitch like her that pisses me off yet makes me horny. There are many people I’d love to have sex with but they’d differ in motivation. Like little Eva. I just simply love her so much I’d like to kiss her all over and have her lye on me all day and tell me things. Sometimes, of course, I think sex is dumb. I’ve thought that ever since I could remember. What was the point of breaking your nuts to get laid? I couldn’t see the point. On the other hand it sure can be shitty sometimes to not have a good fuck. A good hug is almost as good. That’s something I miss here. I don’t get hugged nearly enough. Sure from Wiebke but I need many people to like me. This of course contradicts what I said at the start of this entry but fuck it. I’m not writing to make everything clear and to, well whatever. I’m going to go get stoned and drunk even if I don’t smoke and seldom drink very little. Maybe I’ll get into a fight. Or smash things. Or, we’ll see. My guess is that it’ll fade and I’ll go play some table soccer, say ‘Ficken’ and ‘Sheisse’ a few times and that’ll be it.

_bunnie stop_

We had supper. It was pretty tasty. Wiebke tries new recipes out of the Brigitte quite often. She does a good job. I didn’t feel like telling her I liked it because I didn’t want her to say ‘naturlich’. That would have pissed me off. So she said, ‘Don’t you like it?’ That pissed me off a bit but I was ready and waiting for it. I’ve come to expect negative statements from her. If something is up her ass, she stinks all day. Until she goes out and has a new face on. What pissed me off more, the first I sloughed off quite easy, was that I had left 4 pieces of mushroom when I was finished. Now for 33 years that hasn’t been a problem. My parents never forced me to eat anything I didn’t want. And I find that any other method of conduct is somewhat fuckin’ retarded. Wiebke of course comes from a family where the parents were kids during the 2nd world war. It was not too pretty here in Germany. Things weren’t so good before they had the shit bombed out of them. It was grim. Wiebke’s mother often licks the plate clean, as does Wiebke quite often. Food is not to be wasted. I have no trouble with that either. But the war is 50 years over here, Germans have lots of food and if I don’t want to lick my plate clean, I wouldn’t do it when I was 6, I’m not going to be told to do it now. Not with anything less than the threat of torture or death. It pisses me off to be told more than once even if I’ve asked the subject to be dropped. Why the fuck do people have to make other people be like them? It’s a little different here in Germany. They are still not so foreigner friendly. Canadians are all right. But I don’t want to go on this theme.

Do you mind knowing that I want to have sex with you? I don’t need it to happen and under these circumstances it’s not likely, 8,000 km. Makes it safe, that it would. But I can’t help the fact that I find you sexually attractive.

We’ll leave that as well. It’s not that I have intentions; at my age one doesn’t care about finding someone to copulate with. Especially when one’s wife needs it.

Anyhow. That’s it for today. My shoulder is sore. You should still be my friend.

_bunnie stop_

Things are better today. Funny, I usually hate Sunday. I have to do my driver’s test Tuesday. How ‘bout a song.

Don’t sleep on the sidewalk, Baby.
Don’t fuck dead chickens.
Don’t piss in your friends milkshake.
Don’t shit on

Oh, fuck it. I can’t concentrate. My poetic genius will have to nap. My elbow is sore. Both of them actually. I was reading a little Shakespeare before supper and noticed how he writes quite a bit like me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s used me as a model. I was talking to one of the people that know those things that can’t be rightly understood; you know how because a duck flew by the moon when your mom was pregnant 6 weeks it’s a sign that your penis rising is your anus falling, that’s of course if you’re born in the moment when Jupiter and Mars are in line with fuck is this pen annoying, with the goddam stars. And any how, it turns out that my planets and stars indicate that I am a reincarnation of William Shakespeare. Now you may think I made this up, but I didn’t. It’s very true. Everything I say, stinks with the bitter rancidness of timeless truth. Remember what they say, ‘It’s a lot easier to fuck a goat.’ I’m not sure why they said that but I suppose in a way it’s likely quite true, though maybe not for the goat. Well, let’s wrap things up at that, and remember, Krissy, though a man be jaded and vile and full of wretchedness, he may still have a pretty cock. Just ask. Oh, I wanted to say something about Pattie before I got side tracked into an oranged jungle. Pattie was at the same agency. She’s just so dam sweet, that I can’t bare not to hold her and kiss her. Of course, if she’d let me, I’d do a few other things. Nice things. But she gets in my head some times, as do other people and I just want you to tell her that I’m thinking of her and though part of me wants her legs wrapped around my head and you and guess what all not, I also - I don’t know. Can a man have an honest friendship with a beautiful, tall, sexy blond boom shell. If he said up front, ‘Look Babe, you are a sexual fantasy in the flesh and I’d like nothing better then to lick you and kiss you from head to toe, we can just be friends.’ That’s nice. But here I am, immer noch in Deutschland, she’s not and was solls? Weiss du was? Okay, forget that fun. Do you think I should run for President of Canada? See, it’s not that I want to have sex with every woman I see on the street, it’s mostly old friends. I’ve got this confusion in my head that it’s some kind of consummation, communion, sacred kind of rit. And in that sense should there be no confusion of motive. I was thinking of Chris. And how come when she danced on the bar with me that she didn’t take me home and smother me in her luscious skin. So that’s it for today. Till some other trouble arises.



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. wombat_part_03



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