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 rufie-
ing 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

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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;

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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,

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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

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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 war-
torn 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—

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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

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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 self-
deprecation. 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

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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.”

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 “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’

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 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 self-
consciously 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.

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

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