Monday, November 24, 2008

Page one of my new bestselling novel, by irvell t. macelroy. Don’t go back and correct shit yet. End scene. No, no, you don’t already be ending shit, you haven’t even started. See, this here is the problem, no organization, no, no nothing. So anyway, irvell the t-money macelroy was over at ma’s crib the other day, see, I always set up my meetings at ma’s crib so as to not you know get the feds on my case, see, now we’re getting somewhere, there’s some backbone to the gristle, in any case, nothing to get up in a downhome uproar about, so why is it I have this sense of impending doom every time I put finger to keyboard lately, why is the chalance just totally disemboweling my soul but leaving the ponderations in my brain intact yet dormant, nunca to be released, except in the coda, and, well, by then it will be too late. That’s the problem with looking at the sun and then the fields of wheat. You think that you have to be closer to the sun than the fields, when in reality if you’re a billion miles from the sun and next door to the wheat, you’re still doing like 8 million times better than the average bear. Maybe if I keep this shit up at some kind of modicum of consistency, shit will turn around and become like easier to flow, unpop the coagulation, as it were. Oh btw things are good, as good as can be expected, better actually, and I’m still the luckiest man in 80 universes. Gratzi.