Misogyny Pills: A Memoir of Three Horrible Whores and a Psychiatric Blowhard Nathaniel Vossen 29/09/09

Many, many men have been as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. - J.D. Salinger
For me, life was a series of complex and arduous trials and tribulations coupled with very short bouts of love and lengthy doses of lust. I usually chose the former over the latter in my blind indiscrepancy. It seemed I was looking for someone to love—and my intentions were in the right place—but none were deserving of my precious time. When the search failed, I would break down and take aside one of my shitty side-whores and put her up high on a relationship pedastal, hating her personality more and more by the minute but loving her steady pussy only because it wasn’t out getting ransacked by guys like Todd Shylock and Steve Bradshaw—the local town capitalists decked out from head to toe like Bret Michaels and Mike the Situation out for a night of rufieing chicks and starting gang bangs. Ya, no, I didn’t want one of my side-whores running up in their 3 a.m. coke parties after a night at Gullies—the local bar—coming home to kiss me with dick on their breath the next morning—but sometimes they did; and so, in my jealous and insecure ways I was compelled to stop playing a total asshole and lower myself down to simply being just a dickhead—and they always took the bait—and thus began faux-relationships as terrible as Shylock’s faux-hawk. There I was, 28 years old, jaded and bitter because of a disturbing upbringing and an unsatisfiable lust for pussy and fame born from a troubling fear of love and commitment after over a decade of fucking the world’s most unstable material girls. Life is shorter than we all would like to admit, our corpses creep towards us every waking moment ready to shake our hand and take us away. Dr. Bukowski inched towards the rear entrance to a stage; peering


through red satin curtains, he saw an auditorium packed full of people. Most of the people were medical students and professionals like himself, there solely to listen to him speak about his psychiatric breakthroughs with fantastic new drugs which altered the minds of the mentally unstable—i.e: myself. As the surrounding lights dimmed and the spotlight brightened the podium, the nervous exhiliration of everything suddenly hit him. Self consciously, he brushed the few remaining hairs across the top of his shiny bald scalp, coughed loudly and quietly told himself: Don’t be nervous Adam, you’re a fucking medical genius, a pioneer in the field of psychotherapy. One day... your name... will appear… in the history books. And with that, Bukowski gallantly strode towards his prestigious podium—at least in my imagination this is how I envisioned it. My doctor—the aforementioned Dr. A.R. Bukowski Inc.—had been gone on a leave of absence to speak at lectures and seminars. Since Bukowski had been gone, some primal animal had returned to assume the entirety of my very existence. My hypersexuality had reached a dangerous apex—my roommate had developed acute insomnia and was missing work due to the soundtrack of skanks emitting from my bedroom; alcohol abuse was rampant—I was blacking out more often than not, waking up in unfamiliar cars, ditches, beaches and bedrooms—and to top it off, I was arrested on severe drug charges, hand-cuffed, and led out of a music festival in which I was a performing DJ—directly past the disgraced promoters who had booked me. I had never been an emotionally weak man, or a man who leaned on others for support, but then, at that moment in time, as I suffered from some intolerable form of loser hangover, I needed to see Bukowski immediately; I needed more of the misogyny pills and more of Bukowski’s psychotherapy which filled the void that healthy self-help activities like sleeping were supposed to. I needed results fast; I was facing jail time; and it was prudent to medicate myself to escape a looming insanity or a Cobainesque exit from the mortal world. If there be a Hell upon earth, it is to be found in a melancholy man’s heart. – Robert Burton The frightening part of my intial summer’s end session with Bukowski was that I would have to lividly tell the truth—without cheating—like I did in Immaculate Conception catholic school’s confessionial booth: lying to Father O’Dell about stealing the alms money for the poor and touching girl’s koochies under their skirts at recess; no, this time I would have to tell the truth, because my personal freedom was at stake,—and not the chains which bind a man to wage slavery—I was facing heavy trafficking charges and a sore asshole, and in order to play the system like a fiddle I would have to scapegoat my problems on a personal mental derangement—which wasn’t far from the truth; 2

nor even an iota of a lie—and thus, for a doctor’s script for the court I was painfully forced to re-enact the debaucherous previous months in sequential order of occurrence for Bukowski’s ears, and worst of all: my honesty would re-inforce his Freudian and authoritarian convictions, henceforth proving to him that without his God-like pill prescribing capabilities I was an accident waiting to happen. And so, with lingering anxieties, I set out for Bukowski’s office to update him on the gameshow that was my life. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun, my waxen wings had melted under the heat, and I now came plummeting down to the earth with an explosion and a crash. It was one of those cool summer days that you experience in late August. The kind in which you can sense the strong premonition that autumn is upon you. In one sense, it was a sad day, because soon, the sweet smell of pussy would no longer permeate throughout my bedroom. The cold—that cruel and useless tyrant—would compell girls to put on more clothing. And for a number of reasons, that sweet musky smell would disappear along with the heat until just a faint trace lingered here and there in the concise space of my four cornered room; furthermore, throughout the fall my bipolar dick nearly stopped working; and it was at this point in the year—when the summer’s demise drew near—that I would reach a radical frenzied peak of promiscuity, fucking everything in sight, liberating women of their panties and their dignity; and, subsequently, the Dionysian madness would be followed by many melancholy months of sexual and social hibernation. To add to the depressing aura of the moment was the fact that there were two young lovers holding hands directly in front of me—a disgusting sight. It was in my newly founded opinion that relationships were a tragic waste of a man’s time; the ideals of which were instilled by an elder at some point in his life’s journey; the rule being, that in between the point of his birth to the point of his death he must find himself a mating companion or die a sad, lonely and unfulfilled pensioner. This brainwashed man, the contemporary Romantic, would eventually discover that his mate has no sole purpose but to steal his productivity for use in domesticated activities which could otherwise be used to embetter himself—or perhaps humanity. In layman’s terms: the vagina was created to silence a man’s greatest works. Overtaking the young lovers, I witnessed the boy look dreamily into the eyes of his girlfriend, and state, “I love you.” Slight nausea was instantly induced from the boy’s dreadful remark as I passed a delicately sweet faced girl on the street corner playing her violin—the sounds of which were particularily lovely I might add—and it was to her wailing song that I idly contemplated all of the peculiar thoughts which had just emanated from the depths of my unbalanced brain: love, 3

relationships, and fascist vaginas, and come upon the discovery that I have now become a full-fledged misogynist. Fear struck my heart... ...I was raised by women! How could I have now grown to hate them? Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent. – Friedrich Nietzsche Of course I wasn’t always a misogynist. There was once a time when I myself was a lost and tender-hearted romantic and I too romaniticized believing that it was possible for one man and one woman to love each other in a monogamous relationship and forever be at one; but, there was also a time when I believed in Santa Claus, Jesus Christ, and the Easter Bunny. ....................................................................................................... ...... I arrived at a bus stop shaded by a large oak tree resonating from the harmonies of endangered species of birds; this enchanting experience is drowned out by a cacaphony of idiots which surround me. As I listen to their conversations I feel as if I myself am slowly becoming increasingly dumber, it induces a deep boiling rage inside of me. Before the summer, Bukowski had discovered a significant recurring pattern in his diagnosis of my increased feelings of anger and frustration. He determined that the malicious feelings had developed through a series of disastrous relationships with what he labelled, good-time girls; thusly, he was able to trace the roots of my misogyny to three different girlfriends—with similar sociopathic tendencies, undescribable beauty, materialism, and a great passion for smoking pole. As Bukowski analyzed me through cognitive psychotherapy, his main concern wasn’t the nice girls I had dated or the nice times of my life. What Bukowski wanted for his research of my foul and deranged mind was strictly the dirt, namely: the dirty whores. One man’s whore is another man’s girlfriend. We began our sessions with little glimpses into my personal history. One female exhibit Bukowski initially took particular note of was The Coke Addict, a slender bulimic model with jet-black hair. Through time my romantic heart—or romantic dick—told my otherwise intuitive brain that this girl was in fact the one. Her grandfather owned a large chain of retail stores which allocated a substantial amount of money for her to spend on such necessities as cocaine and alcohol. When grandfather’s trust fund eventually ran dry, The Coke Addict was 4

consequently forced to leave my broke ass and follow her nose elsewhere. It’s in slow-motion that I vividly remember the morning she drove past me with the worst crack-peddler in town—with matching tracksuit and a shimmering gold chain—sitting shotgun in the front seat of her car, with his greasy grin showing a gold tooth. I could feel my little romantic heart burning and sinking into the depths of my stomach bile, where it boiled away and scarred with abscessing blisters. As the car drove by, this terrible man beamed proudly at me through the window: proud the man was with his grand prize über-slut. It was at that very moment that the villain’s ugly mug struck me with an epiphany. It might take seventy whores to reach the princess, but in the end she will bang the worst loser you can think of. My bus arrives. I let the idiots on first, I don’t want to be stuck near them and be forced to hear their conversations about hockey, cats, and tasty beers. I find myself seated near the back across from a mentally-handicapped man. There is something about this man’s child-like innocence and watermelon shaped head that I find so appealing, honest and convincing in simplicity. I’m jealous of this man, in much the same way that I envy my loser friends who laugh at me for reading books and have no thoughts or ambitions but to get wasted and sniff coke with ugly whores on boats every day. “Cigwettes… you smoke cigwettes?” I can’t help but let out a subtle smile. “Cigwettes… you smoke cigwettes?” “No,” I respond, “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.” “My name Matty, Matty Cwazy...” I could go on and on for hours about the dialogue I carried with this fantastic specimen of an innocent man, but now I must tell you about the second sociopath in my twisted story: The Refugee. Filthy, dirty, plastic sex, the type which Bukowski labeled: poisonous. The Refugee came from the slums of Sarajevo, and much like her wartorn hellish homeland she was a Slavic former-Yugoslavian nightmare —a Balkan bombshell: with long legs, beautiful brown eyes, raven colored hair, and an ass from a magazine. I was smitten with this Eastern-European dream-girl—my romantic heart bursting with infatuation. My saliva glands dried up shortly after her acidulous skills of the English language developed. As her nasty little mouth spit venom my abhorrence towards her was born. Still, on restless nights I would find myself admiring her irresistibly flawless face as she slept— 5

this fortunate little survivor of genocide—all the while knowing that when she awoke I would long to duct-tape her abominable yap shut. It was plastic love: the soulless worship of beauty; a terribly miserable realization to grasp hold of. When I voiced my prejudices, things in the apartment began smashing—sometimes on my face—and the neighbors would hammer on the walls. In the aftermath of our civil war—when all the tears dryed up—the scalding hot banging commenced. The Marquis de Sade would have turned in his grave if he could have seen the things I did with that girl—and for her: the nastier the better. It was incredible, hour after hour was devoted to pleasuring and worshipping the round contours of her soft body. Hours that were supposed to be spent in productive manners; and hours which were, consequently, wasted. Ours wasn’t a healthy bond, but a bond between two depraved sex addicts unable to let go of one another—unable to let the other off into the world to share the level of sexual insanity that we had shared with each other. And when the fucking was over, there was nothing to say. We traveled to her homeland, staying with her relatives in homes where sex was forbidden. Without the filthy, plastic sex we discovered just how much we truly hated each other, and when we returned to Canada, I stopped fucking her; and eventually, she disappeared. Sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex. – Hunter S. Thompson I arrived at Bukowski’s practice. His secretary seated me in his office. It was everything one would expect from an egomaniacal psychiatrist: framed certifications on the wall proudly displayed his masters and PHDs; hunting portraits showed Bukowski and his fellow shrink cronies holding up the carcasses of rare African antelopes. I instantly amused myself at the sinister thought of one of these psychiatrists accidentally shooting Bukowski. I visualized a photograph of the other shrink holding up Bukowski’s carcass in lieu of the antelope. With these psychotic and maniacal thoughts swimming around in my head, I am brought to the very reason why I was seated in his Godforsaken office to begin with: The Psychopath. Beauty is no quality in things themselves: it exists merely in the mind which contemplates them. - David Hume At first glance, The Psychopath was the most ridicoulously stunning creature I had ever seen: her saphirre eyes were hypnotic, her lips luscious and over-sized, her baby-soft skin golden brown. However, being that life is never fair, this physically perfect girl was created by a


higher force which forgot to include a few of the key components which make a person a human. The Psychopath was born with half a brain, which was rarely put to any use; and she was born insensate: devoid of a conscience; she was spoiled rich and practiced unimaginable double-standards—cheating and lying to me directly in the face of reasonable doubt. The Psychopath also had a terrible reputation—which didn’t really seem to bother her—she walked around with a wet vagina, constantly searching for things to put in it—If you had a pole, she had a hole—and if ever an equal sexual adversary existed for me, she was it. On our first sexual liason I visted her from another town, we drank 4 ciders by the river and then broke into my friend’s house where I proceeded to bang her on his bed. After a sweaty and incredibly intense fuck session we looked into each others eyes and said to each other let’s fuck again—without saying anything at all. She was good. I began to date her, and throughout time it became apparent that her Daddy never loved her, and I used this fact as pretense to maintain some form of self-esteem in the face of selfdeprecation. The final straw between me and The Psychopath occurred at a concert I was Djing at. What this usually meant was that a lot of people who don’t normally talk to me would be my friends; and, my loser friends would put ecstacy or acid in my drink when I wasn’t looking. The prelude to this hopelessly dysfunctional evening is far from any need of compelling description, in short, I was banging out The Psychopath’s gorgeous co-worker in the back parking lot—and she was due for it, the previous week she was tagged in a facebook photo face down and ass up beneath one of my so called friends. This indecent act was apprehended by The Psychopath and subsequently followed by a discriminate assault and battery—and she hit hard. Even harder than the hillbilly villager who broke my nose a few weeks beforehand. The colorful intensity of this surprisingly effective punch painted my vision a cloudy white and speckled it with tiny yellow stars. I tasted a merciless stabbing sensation drive directly through my nasal passage to the back of my skull. I felt no consciousness of falling, only the unforgiving concrete greeting my unfortunate head. Fuck. I didn’t need any more damage to my brain cells—I did enough of that on my own time. I tried to get up. I couldn’t—I was too dizzy. I screamed the name of Jesus as loud as I could; as though my vulgar pronounciation of his Holy name would beckon him to offer me a crucified hand for comfort: He didn’t respond. I looked down at my shirt which was painted red from the discharges leaking from my face. Due to the fact that my brain had been freshly stabbed by my nose-bone, I suffered a short-term memory lapse and currently find myself at a loss of words which would describe the bliss of evil I felt at that precise moment; but, vaguely I recall looking up at my beloved Psychopath—her satanic figure ethereally lit by the moonlight of that darkest hour—with satisfaction plastered upon her grill every tooth in her skull glistened 7

under that hard white light. She had the distinctly pleased grin of a deranged child who has killed an animal. Again I tried to get up—using a nearby car as a crutch—but fell back down like a wounded beast. The Psychopath then left me there, in that pool of blood and saliva which oozed from my face and she went off searching for a new pole to smoke—it didn’t matter whose, she wasn’t picky. As I lay on that pavement—occasionally releasing thick coagulated globs of spit which had great difficulty actually separating from my mouth—another misgonystic epiphany struck: They say it’s better to love and have lost, than to not have loved at all; but sometimes it might be better to just fuck her and never call her back. Up above, the moon seemed to be laughing at me—or perhaps the acid, was fucking with me. We serve the patient in various functions, as an authority and a substitute for his parents, as a teacher and educator. – Sigmund Freud As I explained my summer to Bukowski I’m sure he was also laughing deep down inside, although his sincere poker face would allude otherwise. He lowered his glasses and inches forward in his leather chair coming nearly a metre away from my face. “What did I tell you, about this woman… at the beginning of the summer… when we left off?” He always has a melodramatic way of stretching out his sentences—a carefully crafted scheme to plunder patient’s wallets— “You told me she’s poison.” “Yes, venomous,” “Nathaniel, if you keep playing this game, there is no question in my mind that you will undoubtedly die.” Breaking from the rigid sincerity of his speech, Bukowski frantically snatches up a felt marker and scrawls the word “PANIC” in illegible writing on an oversized piece of scrap paper. In the same frenzied motions he continues, Concern is not concern it’s PANIC!!…” Panic!! Again, in big fucking letters— Never mind her business, doing so will get you killed or at best—DEEPLY DISTURBED!! Avoid and isolate from her 100%!! Turn feelings of anger=frustration. Feelings of control=concern… A woman DOES NOT DETERMINE your life’s worth or your PERSONAL HAPPINESS!! Tell yourself… no woman is needed to make me happy—NO WOMAN IS NEEDED TO MAKE ME HAPPY!!” Bukowski stops writing and turns to me. “Now tell yourself that… Nathanel… please say it.” “No woman is needed… to make me happy.” 8

“Great. And that’s your positive self-talk, and those are the motions I want you to run through… on a daily basis. I need you to start taking 900 milligrams of your medication, if you start feeling nausea, cramps, headaches, diarrhea, or hair loss take one less 150 milligram pill, allright?” “Yes,” I answered, like a cloned version of the real me. That’s the way things worked at Bukowski’s office, you wouldn’t even finish your story and he already had all the answers written out for you on a prescription pad. My fear of chemical therapy is strong, but I had to play within the system. “I’m going upstairs to fix myself a coffee, and I’ll be back down to fill out your script—I hope you don’t mind.” “Of course not.” I responded. At eighty dollars a session, why would I? As Bukowski took the time to waste my money I was driven by the uncontrollable desire to snoop through his personal files. I got up and flipped through various pages on his desk until something enticing caught my eye, it appeared to be some sort of manuscript for a book or a medical journal he was creating, I began to read it: Hypomanics lust for the “fast lane” in life. They think fast, talk fast, and dominate conversations. Often interrupting everyone because their “great ideas” are of more importance than the conversation at hand. I skipped past a few pages: Patient ‘A’ stepped into my office one morning. He was shifty, nervous and uneasy. I recognized the signs immediately. He was highly distracted, examining books on my shelf and ignoring the issues at hand. Patient ‘A’ had been referred by his family doctor to see me for my expertise on the subject of anxiety disorders. He came from a dysfunctional background. In our first session, the insecure Patient ‘A’ spoke of traumatic family events and difficult experiences with poisonous women which led him to become excessively bitter with his world. Over the course of several weeks I discovered much more. Mood swings happened overnight. I would listen to the arrogant ‘Patient A’ go off about his “insightful brilliance” and “artistic genius.” I could tell that he had an inflated sense of confidence. He informed me that he hardly slept, felt overtly confident, flirtatious, and flamboyant. He spoke of wild self-destructive sexual behaviour with a variety of “good time girls.” Patient ‘A’ was living in a sad, detrimental mentality where sexual liasons with women determined his self-worth. I recognized that ‘Patient A’


was living with a soft form of…” I stopped reading there... Maybe one day I’ll turn the tables and make a film about my experiences with Dr. A.R. Bukowski Inc.—and yes, he truly does put the ‘Inc.’ at the end of his esteemed name. I will come out of the woodworks as the infamous Patient ‘A’ so heavily documented in his currently notable works. I will claim credit for being his unfaithful guinea pig who infrequently took the many medications he was so quick to throw at me. I will portray myself as the traumatized and sedated slave pulling the great charlatan quack as he sits atop his golden chariot of malpractice, cashing in on his ill-repute, as he so graciously cashed in on my vice and misfortune. And perhaps one day I will even relapse back to my cave dwelling ways and become a romantic again. I will program myself to love again and become a settler: I’ll get myself a wife, have babies, and contribute to the world’s overpopulation problems. And when she gets too old? No problem, I will simply leave her for a younger version of herself and see the kids on weekends. I’ll admit it, these stories are pretty pathetic, a grown man digging his own grave and laying in it. Now I draw near the end of this non-fiction memoir of a horribly depraved life and I idly contemplate whether I may have said too much, to you, the reader of this terrible story; and in my head I selfconsciously run through the names and events I may have described to you and I ask myself: Did I say too much? Was I overtly sexist or perverse? Chauvinistic? Monotonous? Lascivious? Self-indulgent? Did I at any point toot my own horn like Bukowski?—I don’t think I ever did such a thing, but, I certainly did lay my inner guts upon a chopping block and slice away at them with the sharpest cleaver in the kitchen. And on the topic of guts, its at this point that I ask myself another troublesome question: is it possible that the lowly crack-peddler will ever catch wind of my insults to his lowly self? I pause for a spell. No, he probably won’t, because you, the reader of this terrible story, probably do not know any lowly crack-peddlers—at least I find it within myself to hope not; but, in the co-incidental event that you do know, exactly who it is I was talking about due to the explicit details of my personal recollections, I wonder if he would—with bruised ego in hand —be a man and see me face to face; or will it be one of his filthy weasel minions who will find his way through my window and bludgeon me to a bloody death as I sleep and it become an article in the Vancouver Sun that everyone will laugh at... Well, enough of all this nonsense, for it is neither here nor there and I’m about to be late for my appointment with my dirty bastard lawyer Yacub Levinstein.


N. Vossen 8:07 p.m. 29/09/09