Hi. I'm Dan . I'm divorced. This is how I spent my Valentine's Day. Pray for me...

I arise at 1:37 PM, and eat a vigorous breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, with Sailor Jerry's rum, in lieu of milk. I also enjoy Cap'n Crunch Berries with vodka. Sometimes if I let the soggy, vodka-laced "berries" soak in my mouth long enough, until they dissolve like my once-fervent optimism, I may even forget, just for a moment, that I lost my wife, my job, and pretty much my will to live. I had a stable, albeit stagnant job as a supply chain analyst at Proctor & Gamble until MY WIFE LEFT ME FOR A 32-YEAR-OLD BLACK PERSONAL TRAINER AND I FOUND OUT ON FACEBOOK. My job performance plummeted, culminating with my unceremonious shitcanning two weeks before Christmas. They didn't even give me a token invite to the company Christmas party, denying me a golden opportunity to drink myself to death on someone else's dime. Fuckers. Now I'm sucking on the soggy unemployment tit at a significant reduction from my former salary, the bulk of which goes to alimony, child support, and a portion of the mortgage on the house which my wife now owns. With the paltry remainder of my funds, I cover my core physiological needs - industrial toilet paper to service both my excretory and cowardly masturbatory functions, and simple microwaveable meal substitutes, deepy saturated in preservatives, and pay the rent for this shit hole apartment, where I attempt, in vain, to numb myself with Lean Cuisines and bottom shelf alcohol. I am woefully, irrevocably divorced. My dignity and self worth permanently surrendered and obliterated, I agreed to document my tortuous divorced existence for this repugnant, scatological web site that nobody reads, in exchange for a premium porn subscription to Brazzers. I've been watching an inordinate amount of black-on-white gang bang videos, as you can imagine. Also, surprise, surprise: cuckold videos. My only complaint with this particular breed of niche porn is that there isn't

a split screen of the husband hard at work, or otherwise engaged in an earnest activity, like perhaps at an antiques store in the country, picking out wicker furniture that would remind his wife of her beloved, deceased German grandmother, Bertilda. This would likely increase my ejaculatory PSI ratio by at least 17%, and perhaps even bring me closer to the memory of multi-erection days gone by, but beggars can't be choosers. In place of a hopeless online job search, I watched "Never Been Kissed", in its entirety. A marvelous film, if you pretend you're a terror suspect in Guantanamo, and it's playing in the background as you're being relentlessly waterboarded. And you'll tell them what they want to hear if someone will just hurry up and kiss the bitch. Then I ate some old Pizza Hut breadsticks I found in the back of my fridge, from MLK weekend. Didn't even heat them up. Just shoved them in my mouth, washed it down with the last dregs of the Sailor Jerry's bottle, then popped a Vicodin, rectally. I used to want to own a sailboat. Sometimes I would even dream about it. I was the captain, Captain Dan, with my family by my side. And the clouds, if there were even any at all, were always fluffy and symmetrical. And my wife would drink sweet tea as we'd stare into the unfathomably vast horizon, overflowing with possibility, and talk about our future together. Now I'm rapidly expunging every minuscule fiber of remaining hope from my hollow soul, like a jolly homeless savage evacuating his bowels in an empty mall food court, and the only visceral thrill I am capable of experiencing is slathering my dormant, freckled penis with cocoa butter in the shower. On the rare occasion that I bathe, that is. After my candlelit dinner - unseasoned ramen, off-brand balogna, and half a jar of pickles, I built a giant heart out of stale Nilla Wafers. Then, overcome by the blistering totality of my lonely troll-like existence, I smashed it to bits with my fists till they turned raw. Momentarily pleased with myself, droplets of unfortunately-HIV-negative blood trickling out

of my furry knuckles, I took an instagram of the smashed, bloodied Nilla crumbs, tossed a sparkly filter on it, then masturbated at the kitchen table, toggling between the wafer carnage instagram and a romantic photo of my ex-wife and her very strong, very black lover, Malik Jones, which I pilfered from her home after installing a key-logger on her computer when I retrieved the last remnants of the shattered life I built with her. A life that I was proud of, and treasured, despite my bouts with erectile dysfunction, and her perpetual, cutting disapproval of my floundering career path. I have two visceral, recurring dreams every night. In the first, I'm being cuckolded by my wife, her black lover, and the 1992 "Dream Team", except for Larry Bird, Chris Mullin, and Christian Laettner. Only the black players, and Chuck Daly blowing his whistle and scowling at me. And my wife's wearing their gold medals as they run a ferocious Olympian train on her, while I cut up orange slices for them and watch in mystical, aroused horror. In the second dream, I'm the third child I always hoped I'd have (I wanted another son because I never had a brother growing up), except I have been burdened with my own adult memories and pangs of immeasurable failure. And regular me, Dan Mackelstein, is the nearfuture version of my father, and I'm suddenly aware that everything which once seemed possible to me now was simply an illusion, though I'm not yet prepared to accept it. I'm fighting it, I have to fight it. And ash falls from the sky. I run out to the mailbox, crying. Ash covers the grass like fresh snow, before long I know we'll all be wading in it. There is death everywhere, everything dies and I know it. I'm just a little kid, but I know it. And my dad is divorced as shit. And I'm running to the mailbox, hoping I'll find something there. I don't know what, a letter? Some decree from a higher power? A mandate to bring my family back together? To stop my mom from giving her sex to that smooth-faced dark man who calls me 'bro'? I'm having trouble running, I keep losing my foothold in the ash. If I fall I fear I'll sink, down, down. And I'm hopeful there's something for me in

the mailbox. And I'm hoping, I'm hoping... but there is also dread. And the ash keeps raining down. I get to the mailbox and fling it open. I see me as my father, in a dirty robe, watching me in the doorway. I stick my hand in the mailbox. And it's filled with ash. I wiggle my hand around, sifting through the ash, afraid it will suck me in. Then I feel something cold, small, jagged. I pull it out, yank my hand out of the mailbox, slam it shut. I blow the ash off the object in my hand, and cough. It's my mom's wedding ring. I close my hand around the ring. I glance back to see the front door shut. Then I lay down in a thick pile of ash in the street and cry. And then I wake up. Sometimes the order of the dream is reversed, and I wake up stuck to my pants, from the vicarious thrill of my cuckold Dreamscape. This is my life, every night. And each morning, I pray for AIDS to overtake me. And every afternoon, as I begin to feel the full weight of another vexatious day of existence crushing down on me, I slither into the bathroom and part my hairy back with a comb in the mirror, desperately hunting for malignant tumors. I combed it twice today. Still nothing. Once again, my wants and desires are callously dismissed. My hairline recedes like perpetual low tide. My testes reduce their output, my virility vacated en masse like American manufacturing jobs. But the bodily decay I long for, the comforting finality of a terminal disease, continues to elude me. Somewhere inside me though, lies the faint heartbeat of an old romantic. I used to kiss my pillow as a boy, pretending I was married to girls in the neighborhood. One of them gave me a handjob the day the Challenger exploded. All good things die. My handy was an aberration, an isolated departure from perpetual celibacy, before my wife took extended pity on me. Now that pity, her pathetic mockery of my love, is gone, and I'm that lonely boy once again. No, worse, far worse. I am a lonely, destitute man with dial-up internet.

I called my daughter to wish her a happy Valentine's Day. Actually, I called her 13 times. She never answers. I think she hates me. I hate me. On my final attempt, I left a sobbing message. This is par for the course. I can't help but wonder how many guys she has already slept with. Disturbed by where my despicable mind has taken me, I decided to power through a box of wine. Drink until I can't think thoughts, can't feel feelings. Maybe I'll die! I failed to consume the entire box. Midway through my manic guzzling, I became enraged at the thought of Malik teaching my son how to shave, and drive, and cuckold an unsuspecting, impotent waste of human tissue. So I ripped the wine bladder out of the bag and chucked it against the wall. The resulting wall stain strongly resembles a hippopotamus devouring its child. This pleases me immensely. I am never painting over it, unless huffing enough paint will drop me into a blissful coma. And I don't have health insurance, so my ex will be saddled with the bill, and the daunting task of deciding whether or not to pull the plug, as my children begin to feel a deep void from my absence and pressure her into bankruptcy just to keep me kinda-sorta alive. Yeah, that will show her! My children don't want me to die. Or do they? Happy Valentine's Day.

Divorced Dan and his degenerate network of collaborators can be found at: http://www.degeneratenation.org/