Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Yup. So. Shit. Eh. Doesn’t matter. The thing I was gonna say. Fark. So, yeah, in a bumbling midst of a conversation in regards to literature and books and writing I confessed to my houseguest last night that I’d been writing a donkey shit load, ie, a load of donkey shit diatribe, and he expressed interest in reading it and for some odd reason I handed him a copy of the screed, at least the first 70 odd pages, with the warning that it was very rough, and sucked, and that I was deeply ashamed of 90% of it, and that I would prolly be arrested if a literary agent got a hold of it, both to jack up their own personal gain and to prevent me from ever harming another keyboard. Gawd. Now I have to discuss it later and fake believement if he says it’s good and/or cry in bewilderment if he says it sucks or just look at the sky in pseudo abandonment of all reason if the subject is never broached again, which it will be. Ah, fuck it, that’s the way shit is, yah? If I’mma write, and have folks read it, which, fuck, why write otherwise, I could just think the shit elsewise, so, logically then, I gotta deal with people’s reactions. It’s part of the, um, inherent core essence of the that which it professes to and may actually be. Bah.
Jee-SUS! Why oh why do I not drink bud dry? So yah. Yup. And you’re just ecstatic over me saying “so yah” and “yup” again. crapola. I gotta do some shit now. Fascinating shit like invoices and cover sheets and, fuck, it’s just too depressing to go into. But even though we’re out of toilet paper, there are plenty of coffee filters, so I won’t complain too much. And now, I really should drink some water.