Exilio

An intro to a life in exile. Not quite Caesar shit, but I will take it.

A Fictional Story

I was approached by someone close to Thinkspot and asked to come write here a little bit. I had already considered opening a SubStack, and I still might do that in conjunction with this, but I liked the guy and said yes. Why not, then?

(EDIT: This ended up not working out. Big shock.)

I’m in Argentina, host of Deathwatch, my daily live stream on the internet. It used to air at night, but I started carrying this site called Nozy during the day, and their main man aired in my old slot. So, I just changed the time from afternoon until 10 P.M. EST (fuck the other “correct” acronym. It’s always EST to me). I’ve been stuck there ever since.

In a way, it’s helped. I used to have an ensemble of co-hosts for the nighttime run of the show, but they’re all scumbags now. In this sick trade, you have to be ready for a turn at any point in time. Private messages leaked, fake private messages leaked, various other incendiary imagery, sneak attacks from supposed friends, the theft of your child via the courts…it’s sort of a nasty business.

The pussy has been pretty good, though. Believe it or not, the pussy was fire in pretty much every case. I only ever truly loved two of the women I ended up bedding throughout this fucking insane bullshit. I’ll leave that up for debate. Not because those bitches give a single fuck, but because it’s funnier that way.

I moved down here, to the lovely city of Buenos Aires, with family in-tow. You know, I’m not perfect, but taking someone’s child, leaving while they are out of town, and cutting off any access, knowledge, or photographic evidence of that child is somewhat unsavory. Many people might even call it sadistic. If you hate me online, you would say it’s justice. Or, you might not even know about that salient fact until you read this story. It’s all about the mob and the “accepted lore” at the time.

I can remember this woman, Samantha, telling me she didn’t know that she was a real woman, until I had fucked her brains out about 30 times. Sexual chemistry was always off the charts. If we met even now, and there was some drinks and maybe who knows what all else, she would fuck me again. I’ve had her doing every dirty thing you could imagine, and some you wouldn’t even want to. In a way, she was the perfect partner for that era of me because she would do whatever I told her to do.

She was already a slut when I met her. We both cheated on our partners to kindle our initial romance. So, I was basically a dick as well. Damn, it was hot, though. I remember the first time we fucked, in a Red Roof Inn off some highway down in the South. She asked about a condom and we both said we were clean and fucked raw right there on the spot, for about six hours. I bought a special bottle of champagne and ordered food. We both lied to our significant others about where we were. The passion was insane. I can still see and feel the room today in my mind.

The problem was she was crazy and obviously I must be a crazy motherfucker to even dedicate this to print. She was slutty, yes, but I often wonder just how much of her mind I fucked up. Sam used to tell me that it turned her on to know I fucked other women. So, I fucked other woman. It seemed like a great set-up, at the time. Looking back on it now, I see it as her self-harming and letting me do those things because she didn’t think she was worth a shit. Subsequently, she revealed some alleged molestation from a family member when she was younger, a cousin (she later denied this). She was also raped separately when she was sixteen. Looking back now, I see it so clearly. Sam just wanted to be hurt again and again because she thought she wasn’t good enough.

I often consider how I pushed her to the wrong side of that instead of the healing side. I could have been the stabilizer and instead I was the chaos agent. Looking back now, I see that all the debauchery wasn’t really worth it. Don’t get me wrong, it was a lot of fun. Fucking a pornstar with your girlfriend, cumming all over said pornstar, and then going to do an interview with the pornstar after you had just been inside her pussy…I mean it was pure rock star shit to me. Still, It put more stress on an already stressful relationship. Deep down, I think we just both wanted to be normal and love each other, but the constant push for more hedonism and debauchery was a constant theme, at least in our early days.

The sad fact she never seemed to understand was that I always thought she was good enough. She was often great, actually. I guess some of this may be down to my own communication skills. I grew up romanticizing film and television. I am more of a “big gesture” type of guy. I fuck up or I’m asshole for a period, but this Big Trip is supposed to show you that I really love you. In fact, that is how I show love. It doesn’t land, though. You have to be daily about it.

Samantha once told me, “The best times with you are better than the best times with anyone else I’ve ever known…but the worst are the worst.” So, it’s not like I’m some innocent motherfucker. We both did drugs, mostly weed (except for her LSD trip revelation of familial molestation), until she eventually quit. We were going to have a son and she decided to get serious about all this health bullshit.

I wanted to. Before and after she left me here in solitary exile, I had long stretches of sobriety. The one before we finally broke it off was the hardest. All I wanted was to hear anything back from her. I could see her checking her messages. “Just send me a picture of our child,” I thought. Tell me anything. One word from her could have stopped me from not caring again. When I don’t care, I’m a somewhat reckless and dangerous person. All I wanted was one word. I was sober, I was ready for resolution, good or bad. However, it was refused.

Rest is a bit of a blur. Took a bunch of pills. Don’t remember much. Had a run in on acid in some small Argentinian town. You just pay a fine here, it’s not too bad. Fucked some pussy. Good pussy, but it’s sort of empty. I’ve kind of come to the point where I think, “What’s the point of even having a bitch?” You can just go buy pussy or at least flirt with it for free. Real women are seen to me, as I approach the age of 40, as a goddamn fucking headache. Also, if you spend any real time with these whores, as I did with Sam, they always come up in your mind, even if just for a second. Of course, they think about you, too, but it’s not the same. They laugh about how they stole your child, while you think about that time in London where the sunlight was shining just right on their hair when you snapped the photograph. Google Photos had the courtesy to remind you the other day.

Then, you think why couldn’t a brick have fallen off and done its work on the bitch then and there.

Women seem inherently more evil than men. It’s hard for me to one-hundred percent hate a former domestic partner. It seems a lot easier for them. The female mind seems to take particular joy in trying to humble their ex. If the ex refuses to be humbled, it only motivates them more. Plus, unless you lock these bitches out of everything (you should), they use every single piece of vulnerable information that you’ve ever given them, along with some fake shit on top, to ruin your life.

Anyway, long story and that’s a bit of a teaser. I wrote it to tell you I ended up in Argentina making my own way by accident. There was supposed to be a team of motherfuckers making this work. The LSD down here is strong, but that’s not the answer. The answer is, “Trust No Bitch.” If you do have to trust one (you will), minimize all damage possible and leave as little on the record as possible. They’re by far the dirtier species.

I’m now sober in one of the biggest party capitals in the world. The fucking Zionists are going to throw us into another war on behalf of Jewish interests. The US election doesn’t even matter. I’ve got about four civil cases in the US courts over silly shit. Kid stolen from me with no access or updates. Who even gives a shit anymore? Let’s just go out fighting.

You know what I do have, though? This shitty fucking internet. I have 2024, which promises to be one of the most consequential years of my lifetime. That’s not a bullshit line, this time. It really will be. I’ve got Deathwatch back up off the deathbed and it’s rolling along nicely. I said to someone the other day, who was simping over some bitch who used to suck my dick:

“Women are like Toyotas. They come out with a new model every year.”

They’re not hard to find. They almost always aren’t special (but always think they are). Some, I assume, are good people, but stressing over some slut is the dumbest thing you can do in life. Which is why I don’t do it…much.

You smashed the pussy. Nutted all inside it. Their biggest prize, they gave to you over and over again, with great enthusiasm. I let some bitch in an El Paso strip club suck my dick. I didn’t give you anything, other than some money spent on you, that you weren’t even worth.

Whatever, I’m in Argentina.