God it feels good to caress these keys again. I haven’t blogged it up in almost ten days and it shows. Both of my readers have stopped posting comments (When I say both, I am referring to myself and an Asian boy from Ohio who only commented once in Japanese). Has Daniel Dickey Dot Com turned into the social cafe I was hoping it would be? No. Is there a chance with hard work it might? That would be another no. It’s a complete and utter failure. I haven’t given a virtual handjob in close to a week and it’s taking it toll. God I just want to jerk someone off… virtually.
My lack of blogging is due to my recent move to New York City. I live on Bedford Ave in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. My apartment is in the downtown section of the city and it’s surrounded by bars, hipster cafes and thrift stores. It’s less than five minutes out of Manhattan and therefore is a highly desired neighborhood to live in. It has a very young and hip feel to it… so hip in fact, that I find myself very out of place walking the street with tattoo free skin and no anal bead necklaces. Yesterday I saw a man walking his pet pig down the street. This was not a cute baby pig, it looked around 200-300 pounds and I swear to anyone drunk enough to read this, it had two tattoos on it’s back (One said Eat Me and the other was of a Pig). My apartment’s location is easily the best in the city, but I am paying for it financial and in size. It’s three bedrooms… correction, it’s three small closets that my landlord listed as bedrooms (If I stretch my arms out I can touch my walls). The bathroom is a gigantic two feet by three feet. I can sit on the toilet, wash my hands, and put my feet in the shower at the same time (talk about multi tasking). The kitchen is on a slant, probably from foundation problem concealed by fading paint, so whenever I open the fridge it rolls a couple feet into the middle of the kitchen. Last night I had a odd dream it was trying to kill me… I’ll lock my door tonight. The apartment is across the street from the subway, so every five to seven minutes my apartment shakes, but only enough to make me nauseous. The one upside… the door buzzer is really loud, so as people walk by outside I make self amusing animal noises. Who needs a TV?
New York is known as the city that never sleeps and that theme is very apparent every night in my apartment. We currently have no furniture, so our wooden floor has acted as my bed, pillow, chair, couch, table, and sexual partner (Ever rubbed two pieces of wood together?). Not making sleeping any harder is that the house is littered with my roommates blankets and clothes… which would be fine if they weren’t covered with cat dander. After I typed that sentence I spent several minutes aggressively rubbing my eyes. I am extremely allergic to cats, despite my fascination with pussy. Yesterday I took a shower, dried off and minutes later realized I used her cat hair infested towel. I spent three hours with my head in the freezer (The frostbite helped me forget about the server allergies).
Is this everything I hoped for when I moved to New York? No and yes. No because I didn’t hope for any of this. Yes because I hoped I wouldn’t be raped and molested… and up until now, asides from that mans pig licking my shins, I have not been penetrated by any uninvited objects (including but not limited to, sticks, fingers, baseball bats, turkey legs, processed foods products, and fire hoses).
Here’s to New York
Daniel Dickey
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
so here’s the thing, daniel. new york new york is for the fearless. why live here if you aren’t into being penetrated or wearing anal beads (round the neck or not) – i say get licked by all the pork you can! unless you’re jewish. then you should leave cause yall aren’t into that right? take my advice and the processed meat like a champ and youll be a better man for it. possibly with more to hump than your floor, if you take the tattoos advice.
p.s. we’re losing like 10000 scalp hairs a day, so even if you are going bald, it’s more than aiight with me. it’s sexy! ish. think of vin diesel or ah. that angry irish singer. work it.
You live on Monica’s street and if it is a brick 3 story walk up..it was her building too..same slope in the kitchen..same small bathroom with a pink tub and very old tiles..